


Scots on a Train

by Brighty18, dogsunderfoot (dragondi), epithalamium, rscollabmods



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cigarettes, Established Relationship, Leather Jackets, M/M, Man in a kilt, Swearing, horrifying luggage, properly worn kilts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-18
Updated: 2016-06-18
Packaged: 2018-07-10 17:47:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 23,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6998398
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Brighty18/pseuds/Brighty18, https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragondi/pseuds/dogsunderfoot, https://archiveofourown.org/users/epithalamium/pseuds/epithalamium, https://archiveofourown.org/users/rscollabmods/pseuds/rscollabmods
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Remus and Sirius take on the British high speed rail system, embarrassing luggage,  and intoxicated Scotsmen on a super secret mission for Albus Dumbledore.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Scots on a Train

**Author's Note:**

> This collaboration was created as part of the 2016 round of [rs_collab](http://rs-collab.livejournal.com/)
> 
>  
> 
> **TEAM: Clever Wenches**
> 
>  
> 
> Thanks mods for giving us the chance to work with super talented people! Thanks to J and A for the beta. <3

**Sirius**  
**_October 1978  
Green Man Pub, Harrod's, London_ **

 

“Bloody hell!” said Sirius, staring aghast at the enormous suitcase, “It’s bloody pink floral brocade!” 

His companion at the table, Monsieur Foutaise, an elderly French wizard in a dated, ill-fitting Muggle suit, rolled his eyes, and Sirius realized to his horror that he’d actually uttered that last thought aloud. “One would think your type would enjoy that sort of thing, wouldn’t one?” muttered the old man. 

Sirius wisely chose to ignore the comment. _Why make this situation worse?_ he asked himself silently. Instead, he merely flashed the old bloke what he hoped was his most charming smile. 

“Olympe requested that this reach Headmaster Dumbledore by the end of the week,” continued the wizard with a heavy sigh, “and might I add that the contents are extraordinarily fragile and cannot be transported via Apparition.”

“What? Why?” Sirius asked. “What the hell’s in it?”

“That information is confidential,” replied the old wizard calmly. “Were I to tell you, I would be forced to kill you.”

“Really?” asked Sirius. Was he joking? One could never tell with the French, but, at the very least, Sirius was quite sure he could take this bloke in a fight, magic or otherwise. 

“Of course not,” scoffed the old man. “You English have no sense of humor. Nevertheless, Madame Maxime is a formidable witch and her orders must be obeyed. The case has been magically sealed and can only be opened by one with the right credentials and incantations. You…” he paused, eyeing Sirius’ leather biker jacket with distaste, “would hardly qualify.” 

“You’d be surprised,” Sirius huffed, (mostly) under his breath. It had been a bad day within an equally awful week, and he was growing increasingly unamused by this interaction with each passing minute. In fact, were this clandestine meeting at a random Muggle location not Dumbledore’s direct orders, he would have walked out a half-hour ago. He just wanted to get out of there and go home to Remus. He picked-up the suitcase and dragged it round to his side of the table. “Sweet Merlin’s balls, what the hell’s in here? Bricks? Rocks? Scrap iron?”

The old wizard wheezed an audible sigh. “Have I not _just_ told you I’m not at liberty to reveal the contents?” he asked. 

“It was a rhetorical question,” spat Sirius, quickly reaching the end of his proverbial rope. “I hardly expected you to answer. Sometimes I say whatever is on my mind.” 

“Clearly,” said the old wizard, throwing down seven times as much Muggle money as necessary to buy their two pints. “You must get the case to Albus without delay.” And with that, he rose and strode out of the pub, nearly knocking down an immaculately dressed Muggle woman laden with shopping bags. 

“The Green Man’s certainly going to the dogs,” she muttered, taking a seat at the booth behind Sirius. 

He turned and smiled apologetically, “Sorry about my friend, ma’am. He’s a bit of an… erm...”

“Wanker?” she supplied. 

“Exactly!” Eyeing the large pile of Muggle money on the table, he asked her brightly, “May I offer you a pint and some chips by way of apology?” 

“Well… I suppose,” she answered, blushing wildly, “but I must inform you that I already have a boyfriend.”

“As do I,” Sirius replied. Or at least he hoped he did. After this last week he wasn’t quite sure. And much of it, he suspected, was his own damn fault. Remus had been in a dark mood all week, having been sacked once again from yet another sad, dead-end job. In an attempt to cheer him up, Sirius had offered to take on all the rent and expenses until Remus could get back on his feet, but that had set Remus off even further. If he really thought about it - which, contrary to popular belief, he actually did - Sirius understood where Remus was coming from. He was proud. He wanted to earn his own keep. But Sirius had plenty of money left over from his inheritance - and a good job at the the Ministry to boot. All he wanted was for everyone to be comfortable and happy and safe, much like they’d been at Hogwarts. 

“Is it serious?” A woman’s voice broke into his reverie, and he realized the lady with the shopping bags had slipped into the seat across from him. 

“Yes, I’m Sirius,” answered Sirius. 

“But is he?” asked the woman.

Sirius laughed. “No, of course not, that would be strange and awkward, not to mention rather confusing on formal invitations. He’s Remus.”

“Sorry?” The lady looked thoroughly perplexed. 

“Oh. _My_ name is Sirius and his is Remus,” Sirius explained. 

“How odd,” said the woman, taking a sip of the beer that must have arrived while Sirius was lost in thought. “What on earth were your parents thinking?” 

“Well, as they’ve never met, it was hardly a coordinated effort, but I suppose they’re both family names.”

The lady laughed and offered Sirius a chip from her basket. “My name’s Rebecca, by the way. And how long have you and Romulus been together?” 

“It’s Remus, and we’ve been friends for over eight years and more than that for… for… well, I’m not exactly sure how long.” 

“Typical,” Rebecca snorted. “My Tom and I are much the same, though we didn’t meet until university. We’re thinking of moving in together, but he’s a terrible slob.” 

Sirius watched her perfectly manicured hand delicately mop up the water-ring left behind from her glass and felt a momentary pang for poor Tom. Or poor Remus, perhaps. Remus wasn’t a slob, precisely, but he wasn’t the exactly the neatest of mates, either. He made piles. Piles of books. Piles of papers. Piles of laundry, both dirty and clean. He was like those ancient monkeys making cairns to mark their graves - or maybe that was Scotsmen. Either way, they made piles of stones like Remus’ piles of possessions. But Sirius could deal with the piles. A few other things, however… “Remus leaves wet towels on the floor!” he blurted. 

“Ew!” Rebecca scrunched her nose in disgust. “How awful. I hate wet towels. They’re so… soggy.” 

“And they have such the potential for mold!” added Sirius, fully aware of how poncey he sounded. But the truth was, he loathed wet towels on the floor. In fact, he had a massive aversion to anything damp. Damp reminded him of stagnant water and the dark basement corners in his childhood home, of elderly house elves and rotting sponges and mushrooms. Well, actually, he loved mushrooms; he just couldn’t abide thinking about how they grew. In fact, he’d recently prepared a lovely Mushroom Bordelaise to accompany the Coq au Vin he’d made to celebrate Remus getting a job. Not that _that_ mattered, anymore. Now chicken braised in wine would be synonymous in Remus’ mind with failure, and thinking of Remus in pain cut Sirius to the bone. 

Across the table, Rebecca was going on about Tom leaving dirty socks on the kitchen table as she carefully dabbed the grease of each individual chip in her basket. Just watching her made Sirius glad of his place in life. Clearly, this bird was mad about cleanliness and hell bent on driving those around her equally mad. Nevertheless, she was here, she seemed somewhat understanding, and she was someone to talk to, so he forged ahead. 

“Remus and I had a fight about wet floor towels this morning,” he confessed, “so I skived off work to go shopping for an apology present.” The fight had been about more than that, truth be told, but Sirius was not about to reveal the sordid details of his personal life to a perfect stranger. Honestly, Sirius had been keen to avoid this particular row, but, this morning as he’d crept into the bathroom for a pre-dawn piss, he’d stepped on the towel, and inadvertently made what Remus condescendingly referred to as “The Noise.” The Noise was a distressing cross between a squeal and a groan and it always came with a great, shuddering expulsion of air. Apparently, Sirius made it whenever he unexpectedly encountered something damp and it drove Remus mad. And, this time, it had awakened him up from a deep slumber. The argument had begun from there. 

“So did you find something nice for him?” asked Rebecca. “Herrod’s is always good for an apology gift,” she added, waving at her pile of bags. 

“Indeed, I did,” Sirius said proudly. “Found a gorgeous cashmere dressing gown that will keep him warm in our draughty old flat. They’re wrapping it right now, so I thought I’d pop down for a pint while I waited.” 

“How lovely!” said Rebecca. “I’m sure he’ll love it.”

Sirius certainly hoped he would. One never knew about Remus and presents, though.

Rebecca took a sip of her ale and suddenly frowned. “Oi!” she croaked, pointing to the suitcase as if noticing it for the very first time. “What on earth is that horrid thing?” She went almost as pink as the suitcase itself and added. “Oh. Sorry, love, hope I haven’t insulted your taste or anything. Though I’m quite open-minded, one never knows with you people.” 

Choosing to ignore the more-than-rude ‘you people’ remark, Sirius fumbled for an explanation. Obviously, he couldn’t explain his magical mission assignment to a Muggle, but why on earth would he be carrying such an horrendous suitcase to the basement pub of London’s most famous department store? He looked like a homeless person with expensive taste in luggage or perhaps the world’s fruitiest shoplifter. “It belonged to my Great-Aunt Edna,” he explained. “That wanker that nearly bowled you over was her solicitor and this contains my inheritance.”

Rebecca’s face lit up. “Oooooh,” she whispered excitedly, leaning forward. “What’s inside?” 

Shit! thought Sirius, of course she’d be a nosey bird. “Not quite certain yet,” he began, searching his mind desperately for anything she might find boring or repulsive. “Though I’m fairly sure it includes 19th-century German novels, antique lawn ornaments, and, of course, her ashes.” 

“Ew,” said Rebecca, rearing back in her seat. “How disgusting.” 

“Quite,” Sirius replied, “but then again she was rather disgusting in life, as well. She had horrible halitosis, you know, not to mention gas.” 

“Oh dear,” said Rebecca, clearly trying her best not to picture Great-Aunt Edna farting her way toward death. 

Sirius glanced at his pocket watch. “Well, right-o, then. Better grab my present from upstairs and be on my way before Remus wonders where I am.” He reached for Rebecca’s hand, bringing it to his lips for a delicate kiss. “It was lovely to meet you, dear. Cheerio!” And, with a carefully cultivated hair flip, he was off. 

If he’d been perfectly honest with himself, Sirius would’ve had to admit that his dramatic exit was somewhat marred by the fact that he was dragging a preposterously heavy, unnecessarily ugly piece of floral, tapestry luggage behind him as he made his way across the pub. When he reached the stairs, he glanced back at Rebecca, left alone at the table. She was furiously wiping her hand with a napkin. Shaking his head, he climbed the stairs, retrieved his present, and headed home toward whatever fate awaited him. 

 

**Remus**  
**_Also October 1978  
Remus and Sirius’ Flat_ **

Remus folded the last of the towels and placed it gently on top of the others. He stared at them for a moment, trying not to glare at them. Who knew that towels could become such a sore point between him and Sirius? It wasn’t as if Remus left towels on the floor for _days_. He wouldn’t have left the one on the floor last night, except that Sirius had called out for him, asking him if he’d seen the bag of crisps that they’d finished two nights before. Knowing the next step would be to walk down to the corner grocery to buy more, Remus had dropped the towel on the floor and hurriedly dressed. “Damn crisps,” Remus muttered as he stuffed the towels onto the shelf designated for them. “Damn towels.” If only Remus had dropped the towel just six inches to the left, Sirius would never have stepped on it, would never have made that horrible Noise. 

They would never have had the fight that morning. 

Remus walked back out into the kitchen and tapped the tea kettle with his wand. While the water heated, he opened the refrigerator and gazed at the contents. It was shockingly bare. He didn’t think he could do anything with celery, orange marmalade, and leftover fried chicken. Sirius would probably know of some kind of strange, exotic recipe that required those things. If he were here, Remus might have asked him, but he wasn’t sure they’d even be talking if Sirius were here. 

Remus settled on toast with marmalade as the best thing to eat with his tea. As he ate, his eyes fell upon the crossword puzzle in _The Daily Prophet_. As always, Sirius had added his special touch to it. “Good one,” Remus commented aloud as he noted that Sirius had written in ‘RODORphus’ in answer to the clue ‘stink’. The word ‘Walburga’ had been squeezed into five blocks in place of the answer ‘devil’. Was it wrong that Remus felt a twinge of pride in Sirius’ ability to completely bastardise a crossword puzzle? Probably, but sometimes that was all a lycanthrope had to hold onto. Especially when said werewolf was relatively sure that Sirius might leave him at any moment. After all, why would Sirius stay with him? Remus was incapable of holding onto a job for long, so couldn’t contribute much financially. He turned into a monster every month and was sick and weak for days before and after. Worst of all, he left wet towels on the floor. It was completely inexcusable and unforgivable. It had caused Sirius to make The Noise.

Remus sighed. He should have picked up the towel. He should have also kept his opinion to himself when he’d said The Noise made Sirius sound like a Clabbert in heat. He’d apologise when Sirius came back, though the picking up and putting away of every article of clothing in the flat should serve as an adequate apology. Fortunately, the leaving of the wet, possibly mould-producing piece of cloth wasn’t a great enough sin that it would require Remus to neaten up all the piles of his books. Remus couldn’t think of a bad enough transgression to require that. 

He carried his tea out to the living room and set it aside for a moment while he propped the window open with a Beater’s bat. The window had the annoying habit of not staying up, and Remus rubbed the back of his head, wincing at the memories of the resulting bruises. Then he leaned out the window with his cup of tea in one hand and a cigarette in the other, watching the people bustling about. He was only there for a moment or two when the door to their flat flew open. He turned quickly, dropping the cigarette to the street below to reach for his wand. Hand halfway to his back pocket, he stopped and stared. Blinked. Stared some more. 

“What in the name of all bloody hell is that… _thing_?” 

Sirius gave him one of those side-eye glances that meant he was thinking filthy curses and caustic comments that would melt stone as he tugged the suitcase further into the room. “It’s a suitcase, Moony.”

Remus was reasonably sure that Sirius had wanted to tag a line onto that, something about Remus being blind or stupid or something likewise insulting. He supposed that the only reason why Sirius didn’t go on was because of the fight they’d had that morning.

“I can see it’s a suitcase. It’s a bloody pink floral brocade suitcase. What are you doing with it?” Remus could only repeat inwardly, _Please don’t let it be a gift for me._

Instead of answering him, Sirius sniffed the air. “Were you smoking?”

Remus decided to sidestep the question. “Sirius, you have a suitcase that looks as if it came out of some eccentric grandmother’s closet, and you want to ask me if I’ve been smoking? Why do you have that… _thing_?” He was aware he had called it a ‘thing’ twice, but his mind was too stunned to come up with a synonym laden with suitable distaste to describe it.

Sirius dropped the suitcase onto the floor, and it made Remus look to see if there was now a hole in the floor. “This is what we have to take to Dumbledore.”

“This?” Remus cringed at the high-pitched tone of disbelief that coloured that one simple word. He cringed even more at the thought of taking this monstrosity to Dumbledore. Then he relaxed. He was over-reacting. “Well, why didn’t you take it to him? You didn’t have to drag it all the way back here to find an Apparition point.”

“We have a tiny problem,” Sirius said. “A teensy, tiny, practically miniscule problem.”

Oh, Remus knew the news coming was bad. “What.” It wasn’t even a question. It was a demand for information.

“It’s delicate or some such fucking rot.” Sirius nudged at the suitcase with his toe, and Remus knew that it took a large force of will to prevent Sirius from kicking the suitcase as hard as he could. “We can’t Apparate it to Dumbledore. We have to take it to him.”

Remus blinked at him, then stared at the gargantuan pink floral piece of luggage in open mouthed horror. “No.”

“Yes.”

“Oh, hell, no.”

“Oh, fuck, yes.”

“How in the bloody hell are we to get it to Hogwarts?”

Sirius threw himself down on the couch and glared balefully at the suitcase. “I got it here. It’s your job to figure out how to get it to Dumbledore.”

“Bastard.”

“Wanker.”

“Pisser.”

“Tosser.”

“Arse.”

“Furbrain.”

They grinned at each other and, just like that, the anger and uncertainty faded. It was stupid things like this, things that they’d done for years that kept them grounded and kept them tied to one another. They could do this. Remus wasn’t sure how, but he knew they could do it together. “Alright, let me give it some thought.” He bent over and kissed Sirius on the lips. “I’m sorry about this morning. I should have picked up the towel.”

Sirius shook his head. “No, it’s me who should be sorry. It was completely ridiculous. Fuck’s sake, we live in England. so, statistically speaking, I should know it’s bloody likely I’ll tramp on something damp every day. It’s hardly manly for me to growl about it.”

“Or whine like a Clabbert in heat?” Remus asked with a smile.

“Or whine like a Clabbert in heat, even if I did not sound that bad,” Sirius agreed. “But, moreover, there is this: living with you is absolutely worth every damp, mould-inducing towel, even if I do end up with some kind of strange foot fungus.”

It was absolutely the most perfect thing Sirius could have said. Remus knelt on the floor next to the couch and threw his arms around Sirius and hugged him. Sirius’ arms settled around him, and Remus knew things were perfect again. For a little while at least. 

He inwardly amended that to all of one minute, because then Sirius opened his mouth. “Oh! I got you something.”

Remus closed his eyes. Maybe, if he pretended he didn’t see Sirius, Sirius wouldn’t go on and ruin the moment.

“I wanted to get you something to apologise for the fight.”

“You didn’t have to do that,” he protested weakly.

“I know, but I wanted to.” Sirius sat up, pushing them apart so he could reach into his jacket pocket for the beautifully wrapped package. He had used a Shrinking Charm on it, and Remus watched with dread as the box returned to its normal size.

“What is it?”

“You’ll have to open it and find out,” Sirius said. He was smiling a rather self-satisfied smile.

Remus tried to push it back into Sirius’ hands. “Sirius, please. Just take it back. I don’t want a gift. I was equally at fault--”

“I was an arse, Remus. Open it. It’s something you can use, and I know you’re going to love it.”

It was from Harrods, which meant it probably cost a lot of money. Sirius had bought it that morning after a fight, which meant it probably cost a hell of a lot of money. “Sirius--”

“Just open the damn thing, Moony,” Sirius snapped. 

What else could Remus do? He didn’t want this to devolve into yet another fight. Sighing, he stripped off the paper and then pulled the lid off the box. He pushed aside the tissue paper and his jaw dropped. “Sirius!”

“Nice, isn’t it?” Sirius asked eagerly.

Remus lightly ran his fingers over the dressing gown. “Is this cashmere?” he asked in awe mixed with dread. 

“It is,” Sirius said proudly. “It will keep my Moony warm and cosy.”

“Seriously?” Remus could barely speak. Cashmere was so incredibly expensive. It was completely ridiculous that Sirius would spend so much money on a dressing gown. They could have used that money for groceries or potions for healing or pain--something that was becoming more needful as the fights with the Death Eaters were increasing in intensity and number. “ _Cashmere_?”

“Lupin, you’re starting to make me wonder about your state of mind. You keep repeating things!”

Anger exploded inside Remus’ chest. “My state of mind? _My_ state of mine? Bloody hell, Sirius! Of all the things you could have gotten me, you got me this? I have a dressing gown--”

“It’s full of holes!”

“It has two holes--”

“And I can put my foot through one of those holes! You needed a new dressing gown. I got one for you.”

Remus got to his feet and tossed the box onto the couch next to Sirius. “It’s cashmere!”

“I wanted to get you something nice--”

Remus began to pace, rubbing the back of his neck which was aching from tension. “You got me something extravagant and expensive, something that you didn’t have to do! I would have been just as pleased with flannel--”

“I hate flannel. It’s so, so…” Sirius paused, looking for a word.

“Plebian?” Remus supplied. “Low class? Common? Inferior? I’m not you, Sirius! I was not raised with a silver spoon in my mouth. I don’t need bloody cashmere to feel warm or cosy or even appreciated! You could have just said you were sorry and maybe brought me a tin of biscuits or a pastry from a bakery. You didn’t need to spend this kind of money on me! Not when you know I can’t afford to reciprocate!”

“I don’t want you to reciprocate. I just want you--”

“You make me feel as if I’m your whore, Sirius!”

Shock exploded in Sirius’ eyes, but it wasn’t until a heartbeat later that Remus really thought about what he’d said. Had he really said that? He had. He hadn’t expected to say that. He hadn’t even known he was thinking it. But now that it was out, he didn’t know if he could take it back or make it better. 

Sirius was already trying to smooth things over. “Remus, that has never been my intention, to make you feel… like that.”

“Then tell me, Sirius. Why are we together? What do we have that is so special, so magical, that you couldn’t have the same thing with any other person in London?”

Sirius opened his mouth, drew a breath as if he were going to speak--and didn’t say a thing. He just stared at Remus with a dazed expression. 

That was all that Remus needed. He nodded, because he’d expected nothing more, nothing less. How could he expect some grand declaration of love from Sirius now, when he’d never gotten one before? Why would he think Sirius would have the words now? And how could he ever have thought that Sirius really loved him anyhow? Sirius lived and loved in the moment. He cared about Remus as a friend. To hope for anything else had been stupid on Remus’ part. 

“Remus--” Sirius began finally, his voice hoarse.

Remus could no longer stand there and wait for Sirius to come up with some kind of excuse why he hadn’t answered more quickly. “I’m going for a walk. I’ll be back with some kind of plan for this.” He really did kick the enormous pink suitcase and received a bruised toe in the bargain. He limped out of the flat before Sirius could stop him.

 

**Sirius**  
**Still October 1978  
Remus and Sirius’ Flat**

For a moment Sirius just stood there, stunned and unable to move. The ornate mantel clock - not that they had a proper mantel - he’d inherited from Uncle Alphard condescendingly ticked off the empty, Remusless minutes. Well, at least it _sounded_ condescending to Sirius’ ears. “Holy buggering shit FUCK!” he screamed aloud. 

The clock just snorted in response, so Sirius, like the man he feared had just left him, took out his aggressions on the wretched brocade monstrosity that stood mocking him from the center of the living room. Unfortunately, his wrath seemed to have the same result as Remus’ and left him flipping through an old spell book for a Toenail Reattachment Charm. 

Five minutes later, the nail was back in place, but his heart was still breaking. _Then tell me, Sirius. Why are we together? What do we have that is so special, so magical, that you couldn’t have the same thing with any other person in London?_ How on earth could Remus say such a thing? How could he not understand that there wasn’t… there couldn’t possibly be anyone else but him? 

Sirius had once found an old Muggle magazine abandoned on a park bench. Flipping idly through it he came upon an article about the Queen in which the author said that for Queen Elizabeth there were only two kinds of people in the world: her family and everyone else. Though at the time, Sirius had wondered why on earth she was so attached to that weaselly-looking Charles (surely there were charms to fix those ears!), he also sympathized. For Sirius, as well, there were only two kinds of people in the world: his friends and everyone else. Admittedly, he had a strange attachment to interacting with random strangers, but in the end, it was James, Lily, Peter, and, most especially, Remus. James was his brother and best friend, he’d saved his life many times over, but Remus was… his center. His heart. His conscience. His entire world. His… everything. Yes, that was it! That was the answer! What did they have that was so special? _Everything!_

And now he had to make things right. If he thought about it - and again, contrary to popular belief, he really did think about things - life without Remus would be pretty damned empty. Walburga (he would never stoop to calling her “mother”) had once informed him that his friends were “hardly of his level.” And that was true, just not in the way she thought it was. Remus was at a level far above her or anyone in his poshly inbred family. He was exactly the sort of person Sirius wished he could be, and he made Sirius better for it. “So fuck you, Walburga!” he said aloud. 

“Oh dear God is that shrivelled old shrew on the premises?” asked the clock, waking up from its ticking tupor. 

“Thank Merlin, no,” answered Sirius. “I was just talking to myself as usual.” 

“Right-o,” said the clock, “though you might try talking to Remus instead.”

Unable to argue and equally unable to sit still with his thoughts, Sirius resorted to the thing he always did in these situations: cleaning whilst drunk. 

Forty-minutes, two spotless sinks, five sparkling-clean floors, and half a bottle of Firewhiskey later, Remus walked quietly through the door. 

“MOONYI’MSOFUCKINGSORRYI’MANARSEANDYOUMEANTHEBLOODYWORLDTOME!!” cried Sirius, launching himself at a very surprised Remus. He smelled slightly of cigarettes, but Sirius was not about to comment and risk ruining what he firmly believed to be a more-than-decent apology. 

“What?” Remus asked. He looked deflated and slightly grey, as if the color as well as the anger had leaked out of him. 

“Remus,” Sirius began, with a heaving breath, “I am so sorry. I was an utter arse and I apologize… I… I… I need you, Remus. I can’t imagine life without you.”

“Oh,” said Remus, a little too flatly for Sirius’ taste. 

The fear began to creep back in. “Please don’t leave, love! I’ll take back the dressing gown! I’ll let you pay the rent! I’ll cover the entire floor with wet towels!”

“That would be a bit disgusting even for my tastes - not to mention we’d have to buy more towels,” Remus replied with a wry grin. And the breath returned to Sirius’ lungs. Remus crossed the room and gave Sirius a small kiss on the lips before picking up the discarded dressing gown. “And perhaps this one isn’t _all_ bad,” he added.

“I never meant to imply that you were a whore, Moony. I just… I just… wanted you to be happy. And when I want people to be happy I can’t resist giving them things I think they’ll like.”

“Like sticks?” laughed Remus.

“What?”

“Sticks! And rocks… and sometimes dead rabbits and moles - things that Padfoot seems to think I’ll enjoy.” 

“Well, to be fair, in wolf form, you _are_ awfully fond of dead rodents.”

“Only in wolf form.”

“Quite right.” 

Still shaken, but feeling a bit more confident, Sirius pulled Remus into a tight embrace. “Besides,” he whispered into Remus’ ear, “if I really thought you were a whore, I’d have purchased a pair assless chaps or some such thing. The dressing gown is really more of an old lady gift.” 

“So now you’re calling me an old lady?” asked Remus in (hopefully) mock annoyance. 

“The sexiest old lady in the world,” answered Sirius. 

“I’m not sure how to take that,” said Remus.

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake, take it as a bloody compliment and get on with it!” called the clock from across the room. 

Both men laughed, but the silence that followed remained slightly tense. “I was afraid you weren’t coming back,” said Sirius after a moment. 

Remus sighed. “Why on earth would you think that?”

“Because you said you’d come home with a plan… and that ‘you’d take care of it’... and I thought you meant that kind of plan...” Against his will, Sirius trembled. 

Remus, however, rolled his eyes. “Oh, Sirius, I _did_ take care of it.” 

Sirius gave a sharp intake of breath.

Reaching into his pocket, Remus pulled out two tickets. “I booked us on tomorrow’s train to Edinburgh. Floo’s down, you know, so there’s no other choice.” 

Without another word, both men turned slowly and regarded the horrible suitcase. Sirius let out a small groan - not quite The Noise, but not terribly manly, either. Remus just sighed aloud. 

“Well, fuck,” said Sirius. 

 

**Remus**  
**_A day later in October 1978  
Remus and Sirius’ Flat_ **

They did the best thing they could do at that point: they ignored the suitcase completely for the rest of the night. That enabled them to think about the trip to Edinburgh with a lot more excitement. They talked about being able to see Hogwarts and Hogsmeade again, and discussed staying an extra night in Edinburgh just to see a few of the sights. They didn’t often get to act like tourists, so this was their chance to indulge themselves. Sirius was particularly keen on knowing if the windows in the train opened, until Remus, finally divining why Sirius was asking, told him that he absolutely could not turn into Padfoot and stick his head out the window.

Sirius promptly turned into Padfoot and moped for half an hour.

The next morning, as they were walking out of the flat, they suddenly realised that they had no idea how they were going to get the suitcase from their flat to the train station. 

“We’ll have to take a cab,” Sirius said decisively.

Remus winced, making a sound that was the little brother of The Noise. “Padfoot, it’s so expensive.”

“When will you learn, Moony, my love, that I have money, and money is to be spent? If not now, when? How else do you propose we get it halfway across the city?”

They looked at the suitcase. “I suppose it is too big for the Tube,” Remus reluctantly conceded.

“Unless we use it as a battering ram to shove people out of the way,” Sirius said, his eyes lighting up a little as they sometimes did when he had an idea brewing.

“No. We are not going to use that thing to bludgeon people. We’ll end up in prison on a murder charge.”

“Not if they put us in a Muggle jail. We can--”

“No, Sirius!” Remus had to look away because Sirius was giving him Puppy Eyes, and if there was one thing that would make Remus cave in to any demand of Sirius’, it was the Puppy Eyes.

“We can’t carry the thing three-quarters of the way across London. We’ll have to take a cab.” Again Sirius’ eyes lit up. “Unless we take the Knight Bus! We could take it all the way to--”

Remus felt his stomach doing cartwheels at the very mention of the Bus. “You know the Knight Bus makes me nauseous.” 

“You just don’t appreciate it the way you should.”

“Right, because being thrown around the interior of a bus that is careering down crowded streets at the speed of light is fun.”

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard anyone ever say the word ‘careering’ before. ‘Careering’,” Sirius repeated thoughtfully. “I like that word.”

“Can we stay on the topic at hand?” Remus begged.

“Right-o. So. Knight Bus or cab. Your choice.”

Unfortunately, the choice of taking a cab was made very difficult by the fact that none of the cab drivers seemed to want to pick them up. Whether it was because it was two men and a floral suitcase or the suitcase alone, Remus wasn’t sure. For all he knew, it might be Sirius’ leather jacket. 

“It’s your jacket,” he said in disgust, watching the fifth cabbie speed past them. 

Sirius looked down at his leather jacket--his most favourite pride and joy next to his motorbike. “What’s wrong with my jacket? Just because you don’t like it--”

“It makes you look like a hoodlum.”

“It does not!” Sirius protested, adopting a rather supercilious tilt to his chin. “It makes me look dashing and rugged and even more handsome than I already am.” He added a hair flip as a form of punctuation.

“Conceit cannot exist in your family because you have it all.” Remus glared at the sixth cabbie who sped--literally accelerating--past them. 

“It is not conceit if it is true,” Sirius said. Then he grinned and bumped Remus with his shoulder. “Lucky you, having such a dashing, rugged, and handsome bloke to share your bed.”

“Dashing, rugged, and handsome isn’t going to do us any good if we don’t get on that bloody train,” Remus pointed out, a hint of desperation in his voice. “Wait. Here comes another cab. Hopefully this one will stop.”

“We’ll have to make it stop.” 

Remus’ head snapped around to look at Sirius. He didn’t like the words or the tone. It meant Sirius was thinking of something, and that something was probably going to be bad. He watched in horror as Sirius glanced around to see if anyone was watching. Then he pulled his wand out of his pocket and flicked it at the oncoming cab. The cab screeched to a stop, but before the befuddled cabbie could register what had happened, Sirius opened up the door and blasted him with a Memory Charm.

“Sirius!” Remus gasped.

“Shut up, Moony. He stopped, and that’s what we needed him to do. He can’t remember that his cab just suddenly decided to stop without him stepping on the brake.”

Remus was going to argue, but knew there was point and no time. He motioned for Sirius to get in and picked up the suitcase to wrestle it into the back seat. .

The cabbie was a young man who kept glancing in the rearview mirror, either because he had some vague notion that his cab and his memory had been tampered with or because there could be something dangerous or someone dead in the suitcase. Either way, his darting eyes kept Sirius and Remus from discussing any plans of what they might do after getting the suitcase to Dumbledore. 

At King’s Cross, Remus got out on one side, Sirius got out on the other, and the suitcase stayed firmly on the seat inside. Remus and Sirius looked at each other over the top of the cab. 

“Are you going to get it out, Moony?”

“I thought you were.”

“I carried it to the flat yesterday, and then carried it out to the cab. I think it’s your turn now.”

Remus looked around him, envisioning himself carrying the suitcase through the train station. “You want me to carry this thing through there?”

Sirius grinned and slammed the door shut on his side of the cab.

“Fine,” Remus grumbled. As he reached inside, he added, “When all’s said and done, it’ll keep the Muggles safe from Bulldozer Black, I suppose.”

Oddly enough, the suitcase seemed to have gained in weight, height, and width. No matter which way Remus turned it, it wouldn’t come out of the cab. 

“Shrink the bloody thing,” Sirius, who was now standing behind Remus, suggested.

“If we can’t Apparate with it, what makes you think we can Shrink it?” Remus snapped over his shoulder.

“Get the thing out of my cab!” yelled the cabbie, taking that moment to become more fully aware of them, the suitcase, and the situation.

“I’m trying!” Remus growled. “A little help, Sirius?”  


“I’m enjoying the view, thank you.”

Remus shot a glare back at Sirius. “That is not helping!”

“I am being supportive and complimentary. I happen to think that’s very helpful.”

“Damn it, Sirius! Now is not the time for compliments!”

“Oh, but Moony. To think of you bent over the back of the couch in that--”

“Shut it!” Remus yelled. “Shut your gob and help me get this fucking thing out of the cab! I swear it grew!”

“It can’t grow. It’s a suitcase.”

“Sirius, think of something!”

“You told me I can’t use a Shr--” He yelped as Remus kicked him in the leg. “What the hell was that for?”

Remus stood up. “Muggle, you wanker!” he whispered hotly. “You can’t talk about Shrinking Charms in front of him!”

“You mentioned Apparition!”

“I did not!”

“You did!”

“Did not!”

“Did too! You said if we couldn’t Apparate with it, we couldn’t Shrink it!”

Sirius had him dead to rights, and he couldn’t deny it. He did, however, give Sirius a look that said, ‘I hate you right now, even though I love you, you jerk.”

Sirius motioned to the suitcase. “Come on, Moony. Stop the faffing about and let’s go.”

Somehow, Remus managed to wrestle the suitcase out of the backseat--after Sirius got back in on the other side and pushed against it with his back.

“Did it grow?” Sirius asked, regarding it with a suspicious eye once they set it on the pavement.

“No. It couldn’t have,” Remus said confidently. A moment later, he said with a distinct lack of confidence, “It couldn’t have. It’s a suitcase. Suitcases don’t grow.”

“Maybe the thing inside the suitcase grows.”

“What? And it was the size of a breadbox when we first stuck it in the back of the cab? It’s bloody huge, Sirius. After carrying it home yesterday--”

“Carried it halfway across London, you mean.”

Remus rolled his eyes. “As I was saying… After carrying it home yesterday, you should know exactly how big it is. It just… seems bigger.”

“It seems bigger now that we know we have to get it on the train. Moony, where are we going to put it?”

It was a thing that Remus had deliberately tried not to think about. He knew there was an overhead shelf for items, but this thing might be too big to fit up there. It would probably take the two of them to put it up there, and if it fell, it would give someone a horrible headache, if not outright kill them. “I suppose it’s too big to set under our seats.”

“Can we let it out of our sight? What if the bastards know we have it and are watching for us to--”

“No. I refuse to think it,” Remus said firmly. “Gods, Sirius, there’s already a million things about this that are ridiculous. To think we have to play hide-and-seek with Death Eaters on a Muggle train all the way to Edinburgh is something I am not even going to consider.” With a sigh, he picked up the suitcase and began trudging toward the doors. 

“Moony, I think I see Walden Macnair.”

Remus kept walking, but his blood turned to ice. “Where?”

“No, never mind. The mustache isn’t bad enough to be him.”

Remus needed a cigarette. He needed a cigarette right now because he knew it would irritate Sirius to no end. If Sirius was going to wear ridiculous leather jackets and see imaginary Death Eaters, Remus bloody deserved to have a cigarette. Or three.

After a few steps, bruising his calf, and bumping into an older woman who immediately turned and called him a ‘fucking punk’ despite his apologies, Remus reached into his pocket and touched his wand. He didn’t know what the consequences would be, but he’d be damned before putting up with this all through the trip. He whispered a spell to levitate the suitcase, sighing inwardly with relief as the weight fell away instantly. He had to remember to hold it as if it still weighed as if a baby erumpent was hidden within its depths, but it was easier to manoeuvre through the crowd.

As they neared the train, Remus could sense Sirius’ excitement rising. “Down, Padfoot,” he said quietly. “Heel.”

“Moony, do you know how exciting this is? We’ll be on a train again! It’ll be like the Hogwarts Express all over again!”

“Except there are no Slytherins for you to torture.”

“I didn’t--”

“You did.”

“Didn’t.”

“Did.”

“Alright, maybe a little.” Sirius admitted. “But they deserved it. Do you suppose they’ll have a food cart with sweets? I know they won’t have the good sweets, no Chocolate Frogs or Ice Mice, but will they have cakes or biscuits or something?”

“I would imagine so.”

“After all, we’ll be on the train for four or five hours, right? They wouldn’t expect us to go without food for that long, would they? Even Bellatrix wouldn’t be that cruel. No, she would. Never mind that. But even Walburga would consider it a lack of manners.”

“They probably have a dining car or a cart like on the Hogwarts Express,” Remus said, suppressing a sigh.

“I wonder where that train is going? And look! There’s a suitcase almost as big as ours--though not nearly as garish.”

It was as if being inside the train station had taken the reins from Sirius’ tongue, allowing it to run freely, commenting about everything that caught his attention. The people were especially interesting: “That bloke looks as if he’s a Weasley... That old woman resembles my grandmother, the old bat. Same hair, same mole… Padfoot would want to bite him, just because he’s wearing that horrible tie. Have you seen anything like it?” Remus made the appropriate, but short, responses to those comments as well as a hundred more. He just wanted to get onto the train so he could end the levitation spell, because the more he thought about it, the more he wondered if it really was a good idea to put any spell on the suitcase.

As they were about to board the train, though, a porter with a thick Scottish accent stopped them. “Sir, do you have a ticket for that suitcase?”

“A ticket?” Remus repeated.

“Something that size won’t fit up above, and you can’t stow it under the seat. You’ll have to buy a ticket for it.”

“The suitcase will have its own seat?” Sirius sounded dumbfounded. 

“Aye.”

Remus looked at Sirius. He’d used most of the money in his wallet the day before on the two tickets. “You’ll have to buy it.” He hated having to admit he didn’t have the money for something so important. The only thing preventing him from complete embarrassment was the fact that he had enough to buy them a nice fish and chips dinner later. And another pack of cigarettes.

“Point me to the ticket-buying place,” Sirius said, starting to turn.

It seemed like a very bad idea, allowing Sirius in this mood to handle the ticket buying by himself, so Remus went with him. It was less effort than having to Obliviate someone later.

Ten minutes later, they were sitting next to each other on the train, staring at the suitcase, which was cheerfully gloating at them from its perch in the seat across from Remus.

“What would possess anyone to put something of vital importance to the Order in something like that?” Sirius suddenly asked.

“It makes sense,” Remus said begrudgingly. “The more it calls attention to itself, the less likely anyone is to think that there is something of import in it. After all, who would be fool enough to carry something vital in an eye-catching monstrosity of a suitcase?”

“We would,” Sirius said with a sudden brilliant grin. The kind of grin that always took Remus’ breath away and had definitely played a part in making him fall in love with Sirius. 

“We would,” Remus agreed, smiling softly in response. He wanted to lean over and kiss this fabulous, generous, enthusiastic man he loved, but the public would never have stood for it. So, he contented himself with brushing his hand over Sirius’. Then they settled back in their seats as the train began to roll.

 

**Sirius**  
**_Yes, it’s still October 1978  
The Train_ **

Sirius awoke to the soft, leathery thud of something round and air-filled hitting his face, and opened his eyes to a sea of plaid. Seriously. It was plaid as far as the eye could see. Everywhere there were men in kilts, laughing, singing, and sipping something from flasks that Sirius strongly suspected was whiskey. _Bloody hell are we there, already? Sirius wondered. It looks like Robert Burns threw-up._

“Aye, sorry mate,” said a voice in deep, Scottish brogue. 

“Wha..?” asked Sirius, still trying to formulate what had happened. Clearly, he’d fallen asleep, but what the hell had happened after that? Next to him, Remus stirred slightly and then began to laugh. In front of him stood two Scots, one short and stocky, sporting a full red-beard and hair to match. The other, slightly taller, but far lankier, had a floppy shock of chocolate-brown hair covering his left eye. “Ah’m Angus,” said the taller one. “And Ah’m Charley,” said the shorter. “Might we get our ball back?” 

“Your what?” asked Sirius, still trying to put it all together.

“Our ball. It hit ye in face - sorry ‘bout that - and landed itself there next to your… erm… erm… erm… suitcase, is it?” 

Sirius looked. Indeed, there, wedged between the window and the monstrous monolith of pink brocade was a scuffed, white football. “Ah, here you go,” said Sirius handing the ball back. 

The two Scots muttered their thanks and wandered back down the car, eventually disappearing into the ocean of plaid on plaid. How’s your face?” asked Remus with genuine concern. 

“Perfect as always, I am sure,” answered Sirius with a laugh. “Though you’re welcome to check it for bruising.” 

“I’ll pass, love - being in public and all, but trust me, you’re still gorgeous. No damage to your most precious asset, I assure you.”

“Most precious asset? I thought it hit me in the face?” cried Sirius looking down at his crotch. 

“I have no response to that. In fact, there is no proper response to that,” Remus dead-panned. 

“Be that as it may,” began Sirius, “have you noticed anything odd about this train? Or, to be more precise, about its passengers?”

“Do you mean aside from the fact that it looks like an explosion in an Edinburgh woolen mill? No. Not at all.”

“But, seriously,” said Sirius. “Why?”

“Why did a woolen mill explode? I was merely being hyperbolic, love.”

“Not to mention pretentious in the most darling way possible. But why in the name of Circe’s you-know-what are they here?”

Remus looked around and sighed. “Well, judging by the songs they were singing and the pennants they’re waving, I suspect that it was some sort of football match. 

That seemed about right to Sirius - not that he knew squat about football. “Well, they’re loud as hell, but there’s one thing to be said for all these Scots.” 

“What’s that?” asked Remus, though the look in his eyes suggested to Sirius that he would vastly prefer not to know the answer. 

“Safety!” Sirius proclaimed. 

“Safety? Even a cursory look at history might suggest that the Scots are far from risk averse.” 

“Well, Muggle Scots, maybe, but at least we know that we’re free of Death Eaters.”

Remus looked skeptical so Sirius continued, “Trust me, love, no one in that lot would be caught dead in a kilt. They lack the proper knees for it.”

“I don’t know, Pads, I think Regulus would look right charming in a kilt.”

“Regulus?” gasped Sirius in mock horror. “What makes you say that.” 

Remus grinned. “Simple. He looks just like you.”

“Bollocks! I’m clearly the handsome one. Not to mention the clever one… the charming one… the cheeky one..” 

Remus just rolled his eyes, rested his head on Sirius’ shoulder, and proceeded to go back to sleep. 

But Sirius, after the shock of a football to the forehead, found he was now totally unable to rest. All round him, what appeared to be the entire population of Scotland lurched about the moving train, singing, and playing a rather disastrously close-quartered game of footie. Another wayward ball sailed across the train straight for Remus’ chest but Sirius managed to deflect it with his elbow, sending it straight back to the kicker. “Nice shot, that,” said the Scotsman. “Ugly luggage, though.” 

_Observant for a straight Muggle_ , thought Sirius. 

“Did I miss something?” asked Remus, pulling up his head and looking around. 

“Just an errant ball headed toward your heart, but I, ever the gallant hero, managed to save you.” 

“Bravo!” said Remus, but instead of returning to sleep he began looking around, staring intently at several of the football playing Scotsmen. 

“Interested, are you?” asked Sirius. “Some of these boys are quite fit.” 

“They certainly are,” Remus agreed, and something small and dark exploded in Sirius’ belly. He’d begun the exchange in light-hearted jest, but Remus’ answer felt a bit too enthusiastic for his taste. Merlin’s balls, what if he actually found these men attractive? Though Sirius only had eyes for Remus, he was reasonably sure that his boyfriend occasionally checked out other men. 

“It’s only natural,” Remus had once told him, “Just a normal part of sexuality.” But for Sirius, it somehow wasn’t. After he and Remus had confessed to James the true nature of their relationship, James had privately asked Sirius if he’d always been homosexual. “I don’t know, Prongs,” Sirius had answered. “I’ve never thought of it before. Hell, I’ve never thought about any of it before. Maybe I’m Remussexual?” James had laughed and punched him in the arm, but ever since that conversation, Sirius had often asked himself if he would be attracted to other men besides Remus. The answer generally seemed to be a resounding “not particularly.” Remus, though, was another matter. 

“What do you think of him?” whispered Sirius, discreetly nodding toward a tall, dark-haired Scotsman in a Black Watch kilt. 

Remus rather indiscreetly turned to look. “He’s quite handsome, really.” 

“Oh,” sulked Sirius. 

“You don’t think so?” asked Remus with a little laugh. “But for the kilt, he looks just like you.”

“Nah,” said Sirius. “His nose his much longer.” 

“By the width of a knut, maybe.” 

“A very large knut.”

“Poor as I may have been raised, Sirius, I am perfectly aware that all knuts are the same size.” 

“And clearly, you’re a good judge of size.”

Remus opened his mouth to retort, but was interrupted by a small throng of very fit young Scotsman having a scuffle in the aisle. 

“Nice bag,” said one as they passed. 

“It's a right scunner!” added his friend. 

And Sirius settled back for a long ride. Thankfully, Remus was once-again, leaning against him, rather than sitting straight-up like a loon looking about the carriage. Still, after that last comment, Sirius had difficulty feeling one-hundred percent sure of himself. He turned and pretended to look out the window, but secretly brushed his nose over Remus’ hair. Remus smelled like apple shampoo and cigarettes, the latter not being Sirius’ favorite scent - especially on his leather jacket - but he put up with it for the sake of Remus’ happiness. Why he had to smoke, Sirius had no idea, but it was certainly a no-win situation. If Remus smoked in the apartment everything - including their brand-new, faux-zebra rug - smelled like stale Embassy filters, but if he went outside to smoke, he’d invariably end up talking to the other smokers that gathered in the courtyard, making Sirius feel rather left out and forlorn. Sure, he could go out there and join them, but he’d end up looking awkward, the non-smoker amongst smokers, the squid amongst kneazles. 

A shout from across the aisle pulled him out of this thoughts. 

“Ye are all daft as hell,” cried a red-headed lassie, waving her hand dismissively at a gang of young Scottish lads including two that Sirius recognized as Charley and Angus of football-to-the-face fame. “Not to mention, drunk!” she added.

“Fiona, come on,” pleaded Angus. 

“Ach, give ‘em a chance,” Charley pleaded. 

Sirius settled himself against of the once-again sleeping Remus (trains generally put him right to sleep), and watched the action. Fiona appeared to be the sort of woman who took no shit from anyone, but the boys were giving her as much grief as their underdeveloped Gaelic school-boy minds could muster. Unsurprisingly, Fiona had the upper hand. 

“Just play the daft lassie and pretend ye don’t fancy me,” purred Angus, sidling up to Fiona and laying a questionably wanted hand on her shoulder. 

“Bah,” she said, shoving him hard enough to land on Charley’s lap, “Me fancy you? Ah’d sooner kiss a Wild Haggis - an easy promise since there’s no such thing.” The crowd around her whooped and laughed, sharing a youthful camaraderie that made Sirius long for his Hogwarts days when life was simpler, more entertaining, and free of angst, Death Eaters, and atrocious luggage. 

Angus pulled himself up from Charley’s lap and smiled broadly at Fiona. “Ach, there is so a Wild Haggis! Me uncle caught one!” 

“No!” But despite her protestations her cheeks held a definite blush. Though she was rather younger than Lily, Sirius had to admit that Fiona had some of his friend’s fire… not to mention flirtatiousness. 

“Yes! They’re real and Ah’ll prove it!” cried Angus eliciting cheers from the crowd. Some seemed to agree with him; others were clearly just egging on the fun. 

“Bollocks! Me grandmother believes in the Wild Haggis, but she also believes in the Little People, so if you can prove it to me, you’d do her proud, too. ” 

“And if I do, do Ah get a kiss?” 

“From me grandmother or me?”

“You, of course!”

Fiona laughed triumphantly. “Angus MacTavish, if ye bring me a Wild Haggis, Ah’ll marry ye on the spot.” And with with a defiant toss of her flame-colored hair, she pushed through the throng of boys and glided gracefully out of the carriage. 

“Well good luck with that one, mate,” said Charley, “Me dad says a Wild Haggis hasn’t been seen since he was a wee lad.” 

One of the crowd produced a flask and began passing it around, reminding Sirius’ bladder just how badly it needed the loo. He’d had to go since they left the flat, but between the disastrous cab incident, the luggage, the glorious chaos of Kings Cross, the football to the head, and, of course, Remus’ beautiful, smiling face as they took their seats, he’d nearly forgotten until now. “Well, fuck,” he said, disentangling himself from the sleeping Remus. 

Sirius picked his way carefully down the aisle, wishing for all the world he could just Vanish everyone. All around him Scotsmen and Scotsboys (Is that even a word? Sirius wondered) pushed and shoved their way about the train, shouting football songs at the top of their lungs. “It’s like the bloody Battle of Culloden,” Sirius muttered under his breath. 

“What was that?” threatened a drunken bald gentlemen in a sagging kilt. 

“Nothing,” said Sirius. “I said I need a bloody bottle of Old Ogdens.”

“Fecking English,” growled the Scotsman as he stumbled away. “I don’t even know what the hell he’s on about.” 

And then he saw it. The line for the loo. It was rife with plaid and at least twenty blokes deep. Worse yet, it did not seem to be moving at all. Sirius felt his bladder make what sounded suspiciously like The Noise. 

“Get these mother-fucking Scots off my mother-fucking train,” he muttered not caring who heard him. But this time, no one reacted. Apparently, they were all just as desperate as he was to use the loo. 

 

**Remus**  
**_Guess when?  
Still on the train_ **

Loud cheering brought Remus out of his light slumber. Again, plaid assailed his eyes when he opened them. “Note to self: remove everything plaid from the flat as quickly as is humanly or lycanthropically possible,” he muttered. Though, he did have to admit that the Black Watch plaid wrapped around the waist of the Sirius lookalike was very, very nice. Of course, it might have looked so good because it was wrapped around the Sirius lookalike. 

Speaking of Sirius… Remus stood up and glanced around. There was no sign of his wayward lover. The pink floral print suitcase was still in its place, however. Either Sirius hadn’t been gone long or every potential thief knew there was no way to hide the damned thing, so there was no point in trying to steal it. 

Some of the Scots had joined together at the front of the car to sing ‘Scotland the Brave’ in several keys all at the same time. Remus smiled, amused. At least two of the singers were wearing rival team shirts. It solidified what Remus knew about the Scottish: one Scotsman may hate another, but when it came to national pride, no group was more prideful.

‘Scotland the Brave’ rolled into a drinking song with very questionable lyrics, and Remus saw more than one flask being surreptitiously passed around the growing crowd. More than one cigarette made its appearance as well. The crush of people was starting to make Remus feel a little claustrophobic, though. He glanced around and noticed the coach attendant was standing helplessly at the rear of the car. The man’s expression clearly said he had no idea what to do with a crowd of rowdy Scots who would no doubt take poorly to having their drinks and cigarettes taken away. Figuring this might be as good a time as any to go to the loo, look for Sirius, or get a cigarette--or any combination of those three things--Remus patted the suitcase reassuringly and headed for the back of the car. As he passed the attendant, he suddenly realised the man’s expression was familiar: Remus very often wore that same expression when Sirius and James were creating some kind of mischief.

He opened the door to pass over to the next car, but the cooler air that hit him was so refreshing that he paused in the doorway. He felt someone come up behind him and he stepped slightly to the side to allow them to pass. It was the handsome Black Watch kilt wearer. He flashed Remus a grin, but didn’t go past him. “Tha thu air d 'fhuair thoitean?” he asked.

Remus shook his head, “I’m sorry. I don’t understand.”

The words that came out of the Scots god’s mouth then were just as indecipherable, though Remus thought they vaguely sounded familiar. As he tried to puzzle them out, the other man mimed smoking a cigarette and repeated the question a third time. That time, Remus understood--a little. It was asked in English, but the Scottish brogue was so thick, one could not cut it with a knife; one would need a bloody sharp axe. Or claymore, Remus thought, deciding a Scottish analogy was in order there.

“Oh! Yes!” Remus fumbled in his pocket for the pack of cigarettes in his pocket. He found himself glancing around for Sirius as he did, but whether it was because he was pulling out the hated cigarettes or was talking to the handsome bloke he’d admired earlier, he wasn’t sure. Then he gave himself a mental shake. He wasn’t smoking the cigarettes and he wasn’t flirting with the guy. He was just helping out a fellow smoker. 

Of course, that wasn’t all quite true, because he did light up a cigarette for himself after letting the Scotsman choose one. “I’m Remus,” he said, holding out his hand for the man to shake. _That does not constitute flirting_ , he told himself.

“Rory.” The Scotsman sucked in a deep lungful of nicotine and sighed contentedly as he released a stream of smoke that would have made a small dragon jealous. He then grinned at Remus.

_Gods, he has a brilliant smile. I’m not flirting. I’m not flirting. I’m merely commenting._

“Dè tha anns a ' bhaga?” The handsome one asked. 

“Sorry?”

Rory was already shaking his head, realising he’d made a mistake. He asked the question again, this time in his heavily accented English. Remus caught two words: “What” and “Suitcase”. He could infer what the rest of it was. He hoped. If he had to ask Rory again what he’d said, the man was likely to think he was a moron and walk away. Though, that shouldn’t matter to Remus. Should it? _No. It shouldn’t. I have Sirius._

Rory was still staring at him, waiting for him to answer. “The suitcase! It belonged to my friend’s aunt.” There was no way that Remus was going to allow that monstrosity to belong in his family, even for fictional purposes. “We’re taking it to his uncle. Her brother. I have no idea what’s in it. Can’t say I want to know, really. Her last earthly effects, her ashes--who knows. I’m just along for the ride.”

This time, Rory’s words were very clear. “Fucking ugly suitcase.”

“Isn’t it though? When we heard we had to take the thing to Edinburgh, we were expecting something a little more traditional and a lot smaller. Certainly lighter.” Was he babbling? Remus stopped himself talking by taking a long drag off his cigarette. He was not going to ramble on like some kind of besotted schoolgirl. He wasn’t. Just because this particular man was very handsome was not any reason to get rattled. Sirius was incredibly handsome, and Remus didn’t act like this around him. Though, once you’d seen someone you were crushing on with a terrible cold or the worst case of bed hair ever, it made it a little easier. 

_I am not going to wonder what Rory looks like with bed hair._ If he thought of Rory with bed hair, that would imply Rory was in bed, and that… No! He was not going there!

“You play football?” he asked.

Rory nodded and started into an enthusiastic monologue about football, eating porridge on Samhain, his cousin’s dog’s ability to bark the alphabet, and the colour of his father’s undershorts. Or, maybe it was a monologue about football, what position he played, and how well the team was doing. Remus couldn’t really tell. He just stood there nodding and interjecting the occasional, “Oh, really?” or “Uh-huh” and a chuckle now and again when Rory did.

He was saved from hearing about Rory’s sick turtle--or was it something about playing football in uni?--by the sudden appearance of one of Rory’s friends. The friend didn’t just excuse himself and enter the conversation, however. Oh, no. He came flying up the aisle, screaming like a banshee, and jumped on Rory’s back. Rory yelled and laughed, reaching up to smack his friend alongside his head. Remus was pretty sure that Rory was cursing at his friend in Gaelic, if only because he knew what James would be saying to Sirius at that moment. 

There was some kind of unintelligible conversation between the two Scots after Rory’s friend had his feet planted again on the ground, and then Rory turned to Remus. He pointed to the next car over and rattled off something about the loo. Was he just saying he was going to the loo? Or was he suggesting Remus come with him? Or was he saying something vastly different? Remus just smiled and pointed back toward the suitcase. “I’d best be getting back to the aunt’s remains.”

Rory nodded and he and his friend passed on through the doorway toward the next car. As they did, Rory’s friend reached down and grabbed the back of Rory’s kilt, yanking it upwards. Rory turned around, laughing and cursing. 

Remus felt his eyebrows shoot up past his hairline. He’d glimpsed a lot more than just leg hair. Rory didn’t seem to be too bothered by it all. He and his friend just continued on their merry way, leaving Remus behind, feeling bemused and bewildered--and more than a bit bothered. If Rory looked like _that_ under the kilt, what would _Sirius_ look like?

With those thoughts in his head, he realised he’d better get back to his seat so that Sirius didn’t think he’d jumped off the train to get away from the suitcase. He was considering whether Sirius would look best in the navy blue and forest green that Rory had been wearing or the more colourful red, blue, and green plaid that Angus MacTavish was sporting. He stood behind Sirius’ seat for a few seconds, just looking at his denim-covered legs, imagining the Black Watch tartan wrapped around Sirius’ waist. It was a very, very pleasant thought, and he shifted as he felt particularly sensitive body parts responding to the picture. He grinned, thinking he’d propose to Sirius that they make use of the first empty and private room they could find.

Unfortunately, there was a scowl on Sirius’ face that made Remus reconsider his words.

 

**Sirius**  
**_Same month and year as before  
Did we mention they’re on a train?_ **

Finally satisfied - or at least somewhat relieved - Sirius picked his way back through the crowded carriage. He wasn’t sure he should feel quite so satisfied, really, since he’d never truly made it through the line for the loo and had had to piss in a discarded coffee cup and Vanish it. Or perhaps the satisfaction came from the fact that, even without the enchantments, not a soul had noticed. He’d just dodged a scrum of singing Scotsmen when he spied an empty seat across from a highly embarrassing lump of floral atrocity. _Where the hell was Remus?_

Then he saw him. Remus. Smiling and laughing and smoking a bloody cigarette with the large-nosed, brunette Scotsman he’d noticed earlier. “What the bloody buggering fuck?” he muttered aloud. 

“Yeah, ‘tis ugly, isn’t it?” said a passing bloke with a nod toward the suitcase, “but shouldn’t ye have noticed that before ye bought it?” 

“It belonged to my Great-Aunt Edna...” Sirius began, but the guy had long-since wandered away, so Sirius chose to simply sit and fume until Remus returned three interminable minutes later. 

“Pads? What is it?” said Remus, but Sirius just ignored him. 

“You okay, love?” Remus said again, gently moving past him and plopping down in his seat by the window. 

Sirius said nothing. 

“Pads… is it because I was smoking?” 

Of course it was - although not entirely. It was because he was smoking with _that guy_! But he was not about to give Remus the satisfaction of knowing he was was jealous. _Why was Remus obsessed with these Scots in the first place? Were kilts really that sexy?_

“Pads?”

“What?” spat Sirius. “Having a nice smoke with your new friend, were you?”

“Who?” asked Remus. “You mean Rory the Unintelligible? He just bummed a cig off me when I went to find the loo. Then he babbled at me about Merlin-knows-what - something about an alphabetically talking dog, I believe - for about ten minutes before I came back here.” 

Sirius said nothing, but merely stared angrily at the landscape whizzing by at 100mph. 

“For Merlin’s sake, Pads, we were just talking. Or, more accurately, he was talking and I was trying to figure out what the hell he was saying. Never did get a proper sense of it, mind you.” 

“Liked his kilt, did you?” snapped Sirius, wincing inwardly at the sound of his own voice. On some level, deep down in his heart, he knew he was being childish, but his hurt was speaking louder than his brain. 

“Well, yes, actually,” Remus replied, “though it would look far better on....”

But Sirius wasn’t about to wait around to find out who Remus really wanted to see in a kilt. Instead, he was out of his seat and making his way down the aisle, headed to Merlin-knows-where… just anywhere but next to the man he was not-so-secretly in love with, but who seemed to have a taste for other men. He stalked through carriage after carriage after carriage, silently cursing everything from alphabet barking dogs to football to the very fact that Scotland existed, until eventually he arrived at what appeared to be a curiously empty carriage. “‘Tis closed to the public,” brogued a vaguely familiar voice, “seems people complained of an odd smell.” 

Sirius sniffed the air. Indeed, there was an odd smell. Cheap cologne… Pierre Cardin, Sirius determined after a second sniff. Padfoot would know that scent everywhere; it smelled like Paul, their muscle-bound faux-ladies man of a downstairs neighbor. He was famous in the building for his over-loud trysts, nose-searing cologne, and his tendency to smoke in the courtyard with Remus. 

“Oi! Ah said it’s closed!” came the voice Sirius now recognized as Angus’s. 

“Then what the hell are _you_ doing here?” asked Sirius making his way to where Angus sat huddled in a seat at the center of the carriage, idly fiddling with a football and drinking from a small, silver flask. 

“Moping and drinking.”

“Sounds just about right,” said Sirius. “Can I join you?” 

Angus shrugged and passed the flask, so Sirius took the seat across from him. For a  
moment the world reduced itself to the shaking of the train and the rumbling thrum of the wheels on the track. Angus sat with his face buried in his hands as Sirius sipped from the flask and stared blankly at the blur of factories and fields outside the window. The whiskey, though slightly tinged with the the taste of Pierre Cardin, went down easy. “Have ye ever been in love with someone your entire life only to to realize that ye are just too dull for them?” slurred Angus, breaking the silence.

“Unfortunately, I think I might,” Sirius answered, realizing that it just might be true. Back at Hogwarts, life was simpler. The Marauders were the kings of pranks, but, more importantly, pranks were king. Now curses meant more than turning Slytherins green, and laughter was often a cover for pain. _What if Remus didn’t find it as easy to love the new serious Sirius? That might explain his aversion to the brilliant leather jacket and the clean flat. What if he was bored of their relationship, of cooking meals and worrying about money and having jobs? What if Remus was looking for something new and different and exciting that reminded him of Hogwarts?_ Suddenly Sirius realized that Angus was still talking.

“...since we were seven! We were best mates back then, but, once Fiona got pretty, Ah stopped being so interesting to her. Ah try to impress her, Ah do! Ah make her laugh and get her attention, but it always comes to naught.” 

“Oi, tough going, mate. And I understand. My best friend went through the same thing with a very similar ginger… though now they’re married,” Sirius said consolingly. He passed Angus the flask and continued. “So what now? Are you going to find her that Wild Haggis?”

“Aye, if only. But ye and Ah both know that there’s no such thing as a Wild Haggis. Ah was just talking out me arse. Sure, the old people all tell the stories, but Ah has never seen one meself. Me great Uncle Bruce swore he caught and tamed one once - named it Hamish - but Ah always thought he was full o’ shit and whiskey.” 

Sirius opened his mouth to reply, but then quickly remembered that he was talking to a Muggle. Every Wizard knew about Wild Haggises. As Animagi, the Marauders had chased them all around the Forbidden Forest. Moony seemed to adore them, though Padfoot failed to see the appeal of any rodent that tasted like oatmeal, nutmeg, and hair. And Wormtail may or may not have had a secret crush on one particular blonde, female specimen. But you could never tell with Wormtail. Most Muggles, however, lumped the Wild Haggis in the same category as fairies, unicorns, and dragons, which is to say, firmly in the camp of the imaginary. Then, as if by lightning strike, the idea hit him. He could save the day - or more properly the relationship - for both of them! “Say, mate, if I can get you something that passes as a Wild Haggis, might you be willing to make a trade?”

“For what?” asked Angus.

“You’re sitting on it!”

Angus looked down in whiskey-fueled confusion at the dark blue and green cloth of the seat beneath him. “The bench?” he asked.

“Nah, something more personal. Something you’re wearing…I’ll even throw in my trousers so you’re not stuck in just your pants.”

“Aye, that’s good, ‘cause Ah’m not wearing pants,” Angus replied with an impish grin. 

Sirius could hardly believe his good fortune, but not wanting to push his luck, he scooped up the football Angus had been bouncing on his knee and headed through the cloud of bad cologne toward the front of the carriage. “Be right back,” he called over his shoulder. 

“Yeah, sure ye will,” muttered Angus, leaning back against the seat and closing his eyes. “Bloody English are complete nutters the lot of them. Fun, but nutters.”

Glad that the whiskey must be kicking in for his new friend - damn, but those Scots had a high tolerance - Sirius surreptitiously crouched down between two seats and pulled out his wand. Muttering a well-known spell, he quickly transfigured the football into the small, familiar rodent Moony loved to snack on and Wormtail loved to… well, Sirius didn’t particularly want to think about what Wormtail did with them. At Sirius’ words, the football began to elongate and turn brown. A mane of long, pale hair sprouted from the snouty head that emerged from the front as four tiny little legs - much longer on the left that on the right - grew out from its loaf-shaped body. “Grrrrrrreeeeeeeump!” squeaked the Haggis. 

“Shhhhhhh…” admonished Sirius. 

 

  
Cradling the creature to his chest, he walked triumphantly back to Angus and presented him with his new prize. “Now, off with the kilt!” he said proudly. Despite some fantasies he and Remus had once played at, this was, in fact, the first time he’d ever uttered those exact words.

For a physically-brief-yet-psychologically-endless moment, Angus looked at him askance before his face broke out in a huge smile. “Ah’ve no clue how ye did that, but it’s pure dead brilliant! Hell, Uncle Bruce was right! And Fiona’s grandmother will love me now!” And without another word, he dropped his kilt (Sirius would later claim he averted his eyes) and handed it over to Sirius. Then he grabbed the Haggis and held it tight. 

“Thank you!” said Sirius, futilely attempting to control what he knew to be a silly grin. He slipped off his trousers and wrapped the kilt around his waist. “How do I look?” he asked. 

The football-turned-Wild-Haggis harrumphed loudly, and Angus began to laugh as he pulled on Sirius’ trousers.

“What,” asked Sirius, “did I do it up wrong?” 

“No, mate, it’s the ensemble,” gasped Angus between fits of laughter. 

Sirius looked down. Frankly, he thought he had the legs to pull it off and the boots, though heavy and black, looked right smashing. “Is it the jacket?” he asked at last. _Why the hell did everyone hate the jacket?_

“No, not at all. Ah pure like it! Looks right handsome on ye.”

“Then what?” 

Angus blushed. “It’s... erm… tradition you know to… erm... wear the kilt proper…”

“Oh!” cried Sirius, the idea dawning. He quickly slipped off his y-fronts and tossed them across the carriage. “Better, yeah?”

“Ay!” said Angus.

“Grrrrrroooooooooooomph!” said the Haggis.

“Brilliant!” said Sirius. 

The men gathered their things and prepared to return to the crowded carriage they were assigned to. “Thanks again, mate,” Angus said, adjusting the poorly-fitting trousers Sirius had given him. “And what was your name again?” 

“Sirius.” 

“Serious? Ye seem anything but.”

“Most people do find me quite surprising,” laughed Sirius as they exited the car. Each man (and Haggis) breathed a sigh of relief and they entered the next carriage. Even the choke of cigarette smoke was preferable to the Pierre Cardinian hell they’d just left. 

They’d nearly reached their assigned carriage when the train slowed to a halt. “Long stop at Berwick-upon-Tweed,” said an attendant. “Delay down the tracks. Might as well step off and have a smoke, I say.” 

Glancing out the window, he saw people pouring from the train. Then he noticed that Remus had abandoned the horrifying suitcase (not that anyone would be brave or foolish enough to steal it) and was now standing on the platform furiously trying to light a cigarette in the harsh October wind. Even more distressingly, the tall Scotsman with the huge proboscis was making his way toward his boyfriend, a book of matches hanging from his long, well-formed fingers. “We’ll see about that,” muttered Sirius. And suddenly, for the first time in weeks, he felt good: confident, happy, not to mention, perfectly at home in the knowledge that he looked damn sexy in a kilt. 

Angus looked up from where he’d been petting the Haggis and murmuring drunken endearments to it. “See about what?” 

“See about getting some fresh air,” Sirius replied. And, with that, he patted Angus on the shoulder and headed out to the platform. “Good luck with Fiona, mate,” he called over his shoulder. “And, for what it’s worth, I think she secretly fancies you!”

 

**Remus**  
**_October 1978--In case you’ve forgotten  
The Platform. Berwick-upon-Tweed_ **

Remus wanted nothing more than to be done with this mission and to never see another Scotsman again. Was there a way to make Scotland disappear altogether? He spent a few minutes considering the number of charms, spells, and curses necessary to accomplish that, then finally decided it wouldn’t be worth it, because McGonagall would probably castrate him. 

At that point, his attention was caught by a red-haired girl that had been sitting in a seat a few rows up from them. She was moving from one person to another, leaning in close to them before moving on. Remus recognised the move as a person who was trying to either say or ask something without letting everyone else know what was going on. Curious now, he watched her make her way down the aisle closer to him. She glanced at him and smiled, and started to move on. She changed her mind, obviously, because she stepped back and leaned in close to ask, “Have ye seen a tall lad, brown hair--mouthy?”

Remus didn’t know how he was supposed to know which particular brown-haired Scot she was looking for based on that description. “Er, no. Sorry. But if you happen to see the bloke I was travelling with, I’d appreciate it if you’d tell him I’m looking for him.”

“Good looking, black hair…?”

Remus nodded. “That’s him.” He was never sure whether to be glad when people noticed Sirius or not. It was good when they could identify him when Remus needed to find him, but it made his heart twist in weird ways when he knew it was because Sirius was as handsome as he was. “Thanks. And good luck finding your…?” He left off, letting the upswing in tone ask the question for him. 

She rolled her eyes and shook her head. “Who knows?” Then she smiled. “Ah suppose Ah should make me mind up sooner ‘n later. But ‘tis a lot more fun leaving him guessing.” 

Remus was strongly reminded of Lily and he laughed. “Good luck finding your lad.”

“And to ye for finding yers,” the girl said, leaning in closely so only he could hear that. Her eyes sparkled impishly as she moved on.

Time seemed to slow to a stop while Remus waited for Sirius to return. He heard the service attendant comment that they were approaching the next station, and he wished Sirius were there at that point if only to ask him to stay with the suitcase while Remus had another cigarette on the landing. At this point, he wouldn’t be surprised if Sirius wanted one as well.

The train came to a stop and Remus enviously watched people pour out of the train car. He couldn’t help glaring at the suitcase. “It’s all your fault that we’re here, you know.” He could almost hear the thing laughing at him. Then he realised: no one was going to steal the thing. It was as heavy and about as easy to carry as a hippocampus. And, really. If anyone wanted to steal the damned thing and try to carry it out of the station without being noticed or laughed at, there was something wrong with them. “Fuck this,” he muttered. Reaching for his pack of cigarettes, he headed outside.

The breeze outside the train was stiffer than he would have thought. Not that he’d given it much thought, really. He’d gone through three matches and was ready to chance a teensy, tiny Incendio to light his cigarette when Rory the Unintelligible approached him. He greeted Remus in a manner that Remus could actually understand, then immediately lapsed into something about a cuttlefish riding a bicycle. Or, more likely, something about needing another cigarette. Remus reached into his pocket while Rory cupped his hands around the tip of Remus’ cigarette, shielding it from the wind. 

Remus shifted his cigarette to the corner of his mouth and nodded his thanks with a smile that he hoped wasn’t too much of a grimace. Considering what Sirius had said before he’d disappeared, Remus really had no desire to have him appear now. However, the Fates or the gods or whatever/whomever was in charge of those horrible, quirky little things either had a sense of humour or an appreciation of well-timed drama. 

Sirius came out of nowhere and pushed himself between Rory and Remus. Rory stumbled backwards with a surprisingly clear “What the fuck, man!” 

“There’s no need to be rude,” Remus said to Sirius. Or he was going to. Instead, he froze, realising that his already handsome boyfriend was wearing a kilt. Not even the thuggish leather jacket could erase Remus’ awe at the vision standing before him. Time melted away as his brain screamed things like, “Sirius! In a kilt! Merlin’s balls! Look at him! Look at his legs! I want to gnaw on his legs starting at his ankles and go all the way up to his thighs and--holy fuck! What might he be wearing or not wearing under that kilt?”

Sirius suddenly snapped his fingers in front of Remus’ eyes. “Moony. Up here.” He motioned until Remus finally raised his head until their eyes met. “Show me some respect, man. I am more than a pair of pretty legs in a kilt, you know.”

Remus opened his mouth to say something though he didn’t know what it would be. He choked on those unspoken words as Sirius leaned in to whisper, “I’m a fabulous fuck as well.” 

Remus’ mouth slammed shut with a click of teeth. The smooth-as-silk comment had cut through his stupefication like a hot knife through butter. “You’re a right arrogant bastard, is what you are.”

“How could I not be, when I look this good?” Sirius said with one of his amazing smiles that made Remus think of things that were illegal in several countries. Suddenly, Sirius’ grin fell away and he reached out to put his hand on Remus’ shoulder. “Moony, we need to talk about some things. Let’s go back inside.”

He was right. They did need to talk about things. Remus wasn’t sure that the train would be very conducive for such a talk, what with the oceans of noisy, partying plaid-wearing Scots, but it was worth a try. Besides, they should probably check to be sure that the suitcase hadn’t done something odd like grow another six inches on each side, sprout antlers, or convince some poor passing sod to steal it. Remus glanced around, realising at that moment that Rory was nowhere to be found. He tossed his unfinished cigarette on the ground and crushed it beneath his toe then motioned to the train. “Lay on, Macduff. Or MacBlack, as the case might be.”

“I thought it was ‘lead on, Macduff’.”

“No. That’ s a misquote.”

“Are you certain?”

“Sirius, you have maybe read one Shakespearean sonnet, and only that one because I challenged you to read something, anything of Shakespeare’s. I think it might be, at the very least, rude to try to tell me that a oft-misquoted quote has been misquoted when in fact the quote has been quoted correctly.”

Sirius turned and started for the train. As he did, though, a blast of wind swept across the landing. It teased the hem of Sirius’ kilt for a second or two and then blasted the material upwards, revealing everything that Sirius had been graced with upon his birth. 

Hoots and cheers rippled all along the tracks from those who were looking at just the right time at Sirius and a couple of others whose kilts had caught the same blast of wind. A few people--men and women alike--threw out ribald comments that were met with laughing retorts. One young woman threw a rather incomprehensible remark in Sirius’ direction. He acknowledged it with a bow and a flourish of his arm that Remus interrupted by grabbing said arm and pushing him toward the door of the train.

The pink floral brocade suitcase was still sitting in its seat, looking quite smugly contented to Remus’ eyes. As they sat down, he was going to ask Sirius if he thought the same thing, but Sirius spoke out first.

“You pushed me, Moony! Now who’s being rude? I was thanking that lass for--”

“Do you even know what she said?”

“I think she said that it was a pleasure to see what was beneath my kilt. Or maybe she said something about the price of kippers in Thailand.”

Remus blinked. “Why in the name of all bloody hell would she bring up the price of kippers in Thailand?”

“I don’t know! She’s Scottish! Who knows why the Scottish do half the things they do? Their Muggles don’t believe that a Wild Haggis is real, and they think Nessie is a sea monster instead of a fucking huge kelpie--incidentally, how about if we travel up to Loch Ness and try to bridle her? I’d love to--”

“We are not going to try to catch Nessie. Other creature hunters have tried and failed, and I’d end up drowned and you’d end up eaten by Nessie.”

“Now, hold on there,” Sirius said with righteous indignation. “How do you know I’d be the one eaten?”

“I just said it,” Remus said with a sigh. “If you prefer me to be eaten and you drowned, that’s just as well.”

“I do,” Sirius said firmly. “You’d probably be the one closest to Nessie anyhow, because you wouldn’t trust me to get the bridle on her.”

Remus frowned with sudden realisation. “We are arguing over who is getting eaten by a kelpie and who drowns in a nonsense scenario, you know.”

Sirius laughed and slung his arm around Remus’s shoulder. It was a casual enough move that no one would think anything about it. Remus didn’t let him say anything, though. He had other things that were more important to discuss than death-by-kelpie. “And speaking of nonsense scenarios, how in the world did you manage to get a kilt?”

“Oh, Moony, my love. You should know by now that ‘What no one yet has dared to risk and warrant/will be for me a challenge I must meet.’” Sirius gave him a grin that was brighter and cockier than almost any other than Remus had ever seen.

“W-W-What?” he stammered.

“You challenged me. Or rather, you made me feel inferior, Moony. You made me think the overabundance of kilts and the vision of Rory the Unintelligible were too much for me to compete with. You had me wondering if you had a thing for men with big noses all along, and I’d known nothing about it. I’ll use a charm to make mine bigger if you want. My nose, I mean.”

Remus could almost imagine Sirius getting ready to utter some kind of spell to make his nose a knut’s-width larger. “I don’t want you to do that,” he protested. “You have a wonderful nose that I adore already..”

Sirius’ smile dimmed to something gentler, more loving. Or so it seemed to Remus. It was hard to tell, considering Sirius was now stroking his nose affectionately or thoughtfully or… something. Maybe his nose just itched. “That’s sweet of you to say, Moony. I adore yours as well.”

“Er, tha--Wait. You are avoiding the subject altogether. How did you get the kilt? And when did you start reading my poetry books? I recognise Rilke when I hear it. And, third of all--” Remus inhaled deeply, “why do you smell like Paul, our downstairs neighbour?”

“Funny thing, Moony. I met this bloke--”

‘GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE!”

Remus and Sirius turned to watch the squealing brown animal streak down the centre aisle of the train, then they looked at one another. Sirius grinned and Remus felt sheer horror leach into his bones. 

“You see? There was this bloke--”

From the moment that Sirius had finished telling his story, Remus began living in mortal fear that there would be Hit Wizards or Aurors waiting for them at the Edinburgh train station. Sirius had used his magic so recklessly on a train full of Muggles. Transfiguring a simple ball into a wild creature well-known in the magical world was akin to transfiguring a stuffed parrot into a baby dragon, as far as the law was concerned. Or so Remus was convinced.

Sirius, on the other hand, was completely unperturbed by Remus’ concerns. “You worry too much, Moonykins.”

“Don’t call me that.”

Sirius smiled. “It’s better than Sweetie.”

“Oh, gods, Sirius. You’re killing me.”

“Stop worrying! Nothing will happen.”

“How can you be sure?”

“First of all, Dumbledore will get us out of whatever trouble we happen to get into. Second of all, we are on a train full of drunk Scottish football players. Anything that they see or do can be explained away by the fact that they’re drunk and they’re Scottish and the fact that they’re football players. By tomorrow, only two or three of them will even remember seeing the Haggis, and even then, they’ll assume it was a normal, everyday occurrence.”

Strangely enough, Remus had to concede Sirius did have a point--though he certainly wasn’t going to admit it. Instead, he looked out the window in an attempt to ignore the big pink suitcase that had started it all.

When they pulled into the station at Edinburgh, they flipped a Knut to see who would carry the suitcase. Remus would never admit he used a tiny bit of magic to flip the coin so that Sirius would have to carry it. He didn’t tell Sirius he’d used a Levitation spell to carry the thing before. If Sirius wasn’t bright enough to think of it, that was his own fault. 

“Did this thing gain weight?” Sirius gasped as he hoisted the thing down the aisle.

“You tell me. You were the one who carried it halfway across London, right?”

“Such a smartarse you’ve become, Moony.”

Remus chuckled. “This is what you’ve made me.”

Sirius was quiet for a moment then laughed. “I’ve done a fabulous job.”

They got off the train and made their way slowly through the station. They saw no one they knew.

“You did tell Dumbledore we were coming, didn’t you?” Remus asked.

“I sent an owl,” Sirius replied. Remus couldn’t tell if the strained tone in his voice was because of the weight of the suitcase or anxiety.

“Look, Mummy! Look at the funny suitcase!” cried a passing child.

The mother took one look at the suitcase and hurried herself and the little girl on past.

“We’re scaring small children with this fucking thing,” Sirius muttered. “This thing had better be worth it.”

Suddenly, the crowd was parted by a large figure saying, “Pardon me. ‘Scuse me. Pardon me. Remus! Sirius! Here yeh are!”

“Hagrid. Bloody most important suitcase in the history of the Order and he sends Hagrid,” Sirius mumbled.

“We don’t know that it’s the most important suitcase in the history of the Order,” Remus protested.

“We haven’t seen any other suitcases other than this one, have we?” Sirius pointed out. “Hallo, Hagrid! How are things?”

“Oh, fair ter be sure,” Hagrid said with a smile. “Dumbledore said for me ter tell yeh--” He looked around furtively then leaned nearer to whisper what it was that Dumbledore wanted him to tell them. Instead, he straightened sharply, his eyebrows rising into his shaggy hairline. “Wha’ is tha’?”

“This is what we have to take to Dumbledore,” Remus said.

“It took you that long to see it?” Sirius said peevishly.

Remus dug his elbow into Sirius’ ribs. “What did Dumbledore tell you to tell us, Hagrid?”

“Oh, righ’.” Hagrid leaned in again, though Remus was sure that the half-giant was leaning slightly away from the suitcase now. “He said ter tell yeh tha’ there’s a Portkey to take yeh both ter Hogwarts. ‘S righ’ outta town.”

“How are we going to get there?” Remus asked. “Do you have a car or something?”

“Oh, no. It couldn’t be that easy. Dumbledore couldn’t have found someone who knows how to drive a bloody car or anything,” Sirius grumbled about twenty minutes later as they stood outside the train station. Actually, he was sitting on the suitcase which, if he was honest with himself, was mainly a symbolic gesture to show his contempt of the thing.

Hagrid had disappeared right after he’d talked to them, telling them he’d let Dumbledore know they were on their way, and he’d have a carriage at the Hogwarts gates to pick them up. He’d come by Floo through a wizarding pub a few blocks over, but they all had to concede that the suitcase would never fit into the Floo easily. The Portkey was the only way for them to get to Hogwarts. But, how to get to the Portkey?

Remus ran his fingers through his hair, trying to think of what to do now. “We’ll have to hire a cab.”

“We’ll have to find a cab willing to drive Merlin only knows how many miles out into the country,” Sirius complained. 

Remus reached into his pocket for his pack of cigarettes. He shook his last cigarette out of the paper and placed it between his lips, though he didn’t light it.

“Need a light?” A male voice said behind him. He turned to see the red-haired Fiona standing there with one of the tall dark-haired Scotsmen from the train. He was surprised to see that the young man was wearing jeans instead of the typical kilt.

“No, he doesn’t,” Sirius said. He was grinning. “So, how are the two of you? Everything settled?”

Angus smiled and looked at Fiona, who looked back at him with the same adoring expression. “Ah showed Fiona the Wild Haggis and she’s agreed to marry me.”

“Ah did not!” Fiona protested hotly. “Ah said we’d see what would happen.”

“‘Tis easy. Yeh will fall desp’rately in love wit’ me, an’ we’ll be married in a year.”

“Yer a fool, Angus MacTavish.”

“I’m a fool fer you, Fiona.”

Fiona rolled her eyes, though she smiled.

“So, where is the Wild Haggis?” Remus asked, almost afraid of the answer.

“Strangest thin’. It just disappeared,” Angus said, shrugging. “Ah had it in a box to carry home to my Uncle Bruce, but when Ah opened it later, it was gone! My football was back, though.”

“Likely one of yer mates took the poor thing an’ will torture the lot of you in the locker room showers,” Fiona teased.

“An’ what would you be knowin’ about locker room showers?” Angus wanted to know.

“More’n you think, and more’n Ah wanna know,” Fiona admitted. They laughed, and Remus thought again of Lily and James.

“Anyhow, Ah’m gonna take her home an’ have dinner wit’ her fam’ly before Ah head back to me own home,” Angus said. 

“That’s wonderful,” Remus said, directing his smile at Fiona. “I hope it goes well.”

Before she could say anything, Sirius suddenly asked, “And where would the lovely Fiona live? You wouldn’t be taking the A90 out of town, would you?”

“As a matter of fact, we would,” Fiona said, looking puzzled and maybe a tiny bit worried. Remus couldn’t blame her, especially when Sirius’ next words were, “I don’t suppose you could give the three of us a lift?”

Hagrid’s instructions had been clear enough. They had to head toward Queensbridge on A90, but stop at a particular point a few feet from where the road diverged to the B924, walk so many steps along the trees, then go through the trees to a field where they’d find their Portkey.

Angus and Sirius wrestled the suitcase into the boot, with Angus exclaiming, “Are yeh sure yer aunt isn’ in there as well? Or maybe yer uncle? Maybe she’s done ‘im in.”

“No, she was a widow for twenty years.” Remus thought Sirius was very much overdoing it when he put his hand over his heart at that. “I hope it wasn’t her neighbour. They didn’t get along much at all.”

“Sirius!” Remus hissed, noticing how Angus’ hand came away from the suitcase as if he’d been burned. 

“Sorry, mate! Just taking the piss!” Sirius said, shoving the suitcase more firmly into the car and then slamming the boot shut. “No beings, living or dead are in there.” He turned toward Remus and added in an undertone, “As far as we know.”

Remus didn’t even want to think about it.

Either Angus was anxious to get the suitcase with its unknown contents out of his car or he just wanted to be alone with Fiona, but he stopped at the precise point that Remus pointed out to him without comment. It was Fiona who questioned them. “There’s nothin’ here but trees!”

“We’ll be cutting through the trees to the B924,” Remus said, thinking quickly. 

“We’ll hikehitch from there,” Sirius added.

“Hitchhike,” Remus corrected quickly. 

“Oh, right! That’s what we’re going to do.” Sirius grinned. “Hitchhike.”

Fiona looked at them as if she wasn’t sure they were all there. Angus simply smiled at them and wished them well.

When Sirius, Remus, and the suitcase were firmly planted beside the road, Remus looked at Sirius. “Good Godric, I don’t know where you and Angus were, but if I had to be in that car for one more minute with both of you drenched in that awful cologne, I was going to get a migraine.”

“Poor Moonykins’ nose is so sensitive,” Sirius said in a high-pitched, singsong voice as if he were talking to a child. “Shall I kiss his nose and make it better?”

“Not here and not when you still reek of it,” Remus said, picking up the suitcase.

“It isn’t as if I meant to let it get into my clothes. The entire train car reeked of it, as you say. Be thankful you weren’t in there.”

Remus took a few steps toward the trees then stopped. “You know, Hagrid didn’t tell us if we had to take one hundred seventy-two human-sized steps or one hundred seventy-two Hagrid-sized steps.”

Sirius eyed the trees. “If we took one hundred seventy-two Hagrid-sized steps, it would take us past the trees.”

That was true. Remus put the Levitation charm on the bag and started to count.

“Did you just put a spell on the suitcase?” Sirius demanded.

“I did. Twelve, thirteen, fourteen…” Cars were flashing past them, and Remus didn’t want to know what they were thinking. 

“What kind of spell?”

Remus paused in place so he wouldn’t lose count of his footsteps. “Levitation. To make it easier to carry.”

“Does it work?”

“Eighteen… Yes, of course, it works. Twenty-one, twenty-two…”

“Why didn’t you tell me to use a Levitation charm?”

Remus grinned but kept going. “Twenty-seven, twenty-eight, twenty-nine…”

There was silence for all of six steps then Sirius said with a pout, “You are mean, Moony. Terribly mean.”

At the one hundred seventy-second step, they turned toward the trees. A wooden fence was situated a couple of feet from the road--a fence they’d have to climb over to get past the trees. As there didn’t seem to be any way around it, Remus simply left the suitcase beside the fence and climbed over. Sirius passed it over to him and then clambered onto the fence himself. As he did, the kilt snagged on a splinter, pulling the material up as Sirius jumped down. 

Remus stared at him, open-mouthed, and probably going a little glassy-eyed until the humour in it caught up to him. Then he began to laugh, harder than he had in a long time.

Sirius, never one to resist Remus’ laughter, even in the worst of times, began to laugh as well. “It’s all well and good to laugh,” he said to Remus. “But you’re not mooning the passing traffic.”

That made it even more funny, especially when a passing truck honked its horn at Sirius.

They were at the top of a small hill and Remus took a tentative step forward, only to pitch headlong down the slope, coming to rest against a small maple tree. Sirius scrambled down the embankment and threw himself at Remus’ side. “Moony! Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” Remus said grumpily, testing his limbs just to be sure that he really, truly was alright. His cheek burned and he put a hand up to his face, bringing it away with a streak of blood. 

“You scratched yourself,” Sirius pointed out unnecessarily. He pulled his wand out of his jacket. “Here. Let me fix it.”

There were certain things that Sirius had learned because of Remus’ condition: how to willingly change into a big, black dog; how to find a place with thick, confining walls, and how to heal cuts, bruises, and cracked bones. Though, Remus suspicioned the latter was also because of the things Sirius and James got up to on their summer hols. At any rate, he didn’t have any problems with Sirius aiming the point of his wand at Remus’ cheek. He felt the tingle in his cheek and a moment later, Sirius grinned and tucked his wand away. “All done. Except you’re still bloody.” Sirius licked his thumb and rubbed it across Remus’ cheek. “Now you’re all healed up and pretty again.”

“I’m not ‘pretty’.”

“I think you’re beautiful, and that’s all that counts.”

There was no reason to argue with him now, especially since Remus’ eyes had gone to the forgotten suitcase. “Shite! Is the thing okay? Did anything break?”

Sirius got up to inspect it. “It seems fine. No holes. Not even a scuff.”

“Shake it. See if anything sounds broken.”

Sirius did, and they both heaved a sigh of relief that everything still sounded as if it were intact. 

“Of course, if something were broken, Dumbledore could fix it,” Sirius said.

“I don’t want to take the chance,” Remus said, getting to his feet.

They made their way through the trees, Sirius cursing with every step. “Fuck! Ouch! Where did that come from?”

“Pads, it is not that bad. Are you or are you not wearing a leather jacket?”

“It’s not my bloody arms! It’s my bloody legs! Bloody kilt! Where’s a fucking axe when you need one?”

Remus felt a bit of remorse, considering he was the main reason for Sirius wearing said kilt. “I’ll heal them all,” he said. “I’ll even kiss them all better. Later.” He felt the need to add that particular condition lest Sirius get the idea that Remus was perfectly fine with shagging at the edge of the tree line only ten feet away from the road--even if they were unlikely to be seen.

“Promise?” Sirius asked brightly.

“Cross my heart.”

Later, when Sirius would tell the story of how they had to pass through a forest at least a quarter of a mile wide, Remus would refrain from pointing out that the tree line was merely two to three trees deep.

They were now standing at the edge of a field. They stepped forward, scanning the ground for anything resembling a Portkey. Of course, anything could resemble a Portkey as anything could be used for one, so they had to find something that looked out of place. Remus found a sweet wrapper, and they both touched it at the same time--only for nothing to happen. Sirius made it Vanish and they continued their hunt. They found a rusty tin and a discarded sock before they finally found a bright silver fork. 

“This is it, Moony. I know it,” Sirius said.

Remus, starting to feel tired and very hungry, knew he sounded snappish when he said, “You knew it about the tin and the sock, too.”

Nevertheless, they counted to three and touched the fork at the same time. Instantly, Remus felt the unpleasant hooking sensation behind his navel and closed his eyes against the dizzying colours streaking past him. When it stopped, he let himself be dropped onto the ground instead of attempting a more graceful landing. It wasn’t as if anyone else could see him except Sirius and the suitcase. 

He opened his eyes to see Sirius on the ground nearby, his kilt hiked up to his upper thighs. “Gods,” he muttered. Even when he was tired and hungry, the thought of what was hidden beneath that kilt could get to him. 

“Hallo, Moony, my love. Shall I pull this up higher to give you a better peek?” Sirius had seen where Remus’ eyes had been, and there would be no living with him now.

“You are incorrigible.”

“You love me.”

Remus sighed. “I do.”

Sirius sat up and leaned toward him, his expression suddenly very unlike the laughing, teasing one of only two seconds ago. “Say it, Remus.”

Remus stared at him, wanting to say, “It’s getting late, my stomach is going to start making The Noise soon, and we still have to get this bloody awful suitcase to the Headmaster, and you want me to say something you already know?” But he didn’t. Instead, for the first time, he wondered, truly wondered, if Sirius really knew he did. All the times that Sirius said he wasn’t sure, or acted as if he was uncertain about it were now rearing their ugly heads to hiss threateningly at Remus. Could Sirius truly be as unsure as Remus himself? It couldn’t be possible. Sirius was so handsome and charming and everything that Remus was not. Yet, the look in those grey eyes, as if Sirius was desperate for something that only Remus could give made Remus’ mind up for him. He reached over and put his hand on Sirius’ face. “I love you, Sirius. More than anything.”

The sudden flare of light and happiness in Sirius’ eyes made Remus smile.

And then they heard Hagrid’s voice. “Oi! There yeh be! Headmaster’s waitin’ fer yeh!”

Sirius and Remus sighed and got to their feet.

 

 **Sirius**  
**_You should know the date by now  
Hogwarts_**

Despite some very odd and suspicious looks from the students who passed them in the halls, Sirius could barely contain his excitement as the trio made their way toward the Headmaster’s office. _Hogwarts! They were back!_ Even the smells were the same: the slight, sharp, nose-tingle of chalk, the somber awe of history, and the mildly hysterical scent of recently exploded potions. The students, though, seemed much younger and smaller than he remembered. 

“Oooh, I think that’s Black and Lupin,” whispered a petite blonde wearing a Ravenclaw tie, “I heard they once terrorized the school and ruled over Gryffindor!”

“That can’t possibly be them,” her companion replied. “No Gryffindor would be caught dead with that luggage.”

Despite himself, Sirius laughed. 

“It’s a fair point, Pads,” whispered Remus, stifling a giggle. “It’s more of a Hufflepuff-looking bag.”

“No, definitely Slytherin. Ugly hearts. Ugly faces. Ugly luggage.”

And, for a brief moment, if felt like old times. 

They had just given the password to the guardian Gargoyle and were about to mount the stairs to the Headmaster’s office, when a small scrap of brown parchment aimed itself at Hagrid’s head. The groundskeeper snatched it out of the air and read it with a scowl. “Got ta leave ya ‘ere,” he growled, “somethin’ exploded in the garden again.” 

Neither Sirius nor Remus had any response to that - probably because neither had the guts to really think about what, exactly, a garden explosion might entail. 

“Merlin knows, ya know yer way to the Headmaster’s office. Spent enough time there once, didn't ya? So you and yer ugly ‘ol bag can carry on on your own,” Hagrid said before hurrying away. 

Shrugging, Sirius and Remus ascended the stairs, dragging the hideous suitcase behind them. They’d nearly reached the office door when Minerva McGonagall rushed in like a bat out of hell - or, more precisely, a cat out of Gryffindor. 

“Black! Lupin! Halt!” she bellowed, racing down the hallway. 

“Bloody buggering fuck,” whispered Sirius. 

“Ditto,” Remus echoed. 

Still, schoolboy memory kicked in and both men froze in place. 

“What in Merlin’s name happened on that train?” growled McGonagall, thrusting herself in front of the office door to prevent them from entering while ominously gripping the knob. Sirius held his breath, preparing himself for the worst. 

“Sirius didn’t mean it, Professor,” Remus began, his voice dripping with swotty, Prefectesque fear. “Yes, he performed magic in front of Muggles, but he did it in the name of love.”

“Love?” asked McGonagall with evident amusement. “Yours, I presume?”

“Mine, his, and the love of two Muggles who were clearly destined for one another. Sirius was merely helping to bring them together. He may have been reckless, yes, but his intentions were good.” 

Sirius released the breath he didn’t know he was holding. _Holy fuck! Remus was defending him!_ Love and admiration bubbled up in his heart. 

But whatever was bubbling up in McGonagall, clearly wasn’t love. “Despite your well-intentioned protectiveness, Lupin, I am _not_ referring to the incident with the Wild Haggis. Merlin knows, every Scotsman has seen a Wild Haggis or two in his day - not to mention faeries, kelpies, and the occasional cailleach. Some have even seen such things when sober. Scots are superstitious lot, and a single Wild Haggis sighting will make little difference to Wizard-Muggle relations.” She took a deep breath and pointed at Sirius’ kilt. “No,” she snarled, “I am talking about THAT! Are you aware, Mr. Black, of exactly what you’re wearing in my presence?”

“A kilt, ma’am?” Even as a so-called adult, Sirius could not deny that an angry Minerva McGonagall was formidable and more than a wee bit terrifying. 

“Yes, clearly, you are aware of the generalities of your sartorial choices, but I am more interested in the actual tartan. Do you know what that is, Black?” 

“Erm, MacTavish?” said Sirius, struggling to recall Angus’ last name. 

“Yes, MacTavish, my sworn nemeses. Be they Wizards or Muggles, they’re the biggest clan of bastards to ever roam the earth.” She narrowed her eyes and, with a sharp jerk of her wrist, cast a wordless spell on Sirius’ kilt. Red faded to grey, blue deepened to black, and, suddenly MacTavish was no more. “There,” she said firmly. “Douglass. Much better, don’t you agree?” 

Sirius glanced down. “Well, the grey does bring out my eyes - not to mention complements my jacket quite nicely.”

Remus heaved a great sigh and slapped his hand to his forehead. 

“Neither your eyes, startling grey as they may be, nor your jacket, why ever the hell you chose it, are the point, Black. The Douglasses were our neighbors to the east when I was a child, and they were responsible, kind, and upstanding. The MacTavishes, unfortunately, were our neighbors to the west. They were terrible: nosey and noisy and messy, always letting their horrid hounds dig holes in our garden. They were forever wandering about our land and attempting to peer in our windows. Gordon MacTavish once tried to kiss my sister, and his Squib brother, Bruce, broke into my secret playhouse and stole my favorite pet.”

“Did its name happen to be Hamish?” Sirius offered. 

McGonagall fixed him with a rather odd look and seemed about to comment, but then somehow change her mind. “Well,” she said, after a long minute of silence, “be that as it may, I’ve had the elves prepare the guest room in the Gryffindor Tower for you. Once you’ve met with Headmaster Dumbledore you may head there and get some much-needed rest.” 

“Wait. There are guest rooms in the Gryffindor Tower?” asked Sirius. “How did we never know that?”

McGonagall shuddered with what Sirius could only assume was a laugh. “Use your brain, Mr. Black, do you honestly think that I would have dared harbor guests so close to you, Mr. Lupin, Mr. Pettigrew, and...” she took a deep breath, “dear Merlin, Mr. Potter?” 

“Fair point,” conceded Remus. 

“Exactly. The password is ‘cardoon,’ and, no matter how much she begs and pleads, for the love of Merlin, DO NOT show the Fat Lady what is under your kilt!” And with that McGonagall turned to leave. 

Remus was blushing, but Sirius seized the moment. “Well, I am wearing the kilt proper, ma’am,” he said flashing a cocky grin and reaching for the hem of his kilt. 

McGonagall froze in place. “Proud as a man may be of his sword, ‘tis oft best to leave it sheathed,” she intoned, not even bothering to turn around. 

Both men exploded in laughter. _Minerva McGonagall was funny, thought Sirius. She’s one of the few things that’s actually improved since graduation._

Back straight and posture perfect, McGonagall began to walk away. 

“Wait!” called Remus, “Thank you, Professor.”

“For what?” asked McGonagall, turning back toward them. 

“For being the first and only person who’s not commented on this damn suitcase,” answered Remus, pointing at the monstrous thing. 

McGonagall snorted. “I’ve known Olympe Maxime for decades, and never once has she exhibited anything but atrocious taste. And, say what you will about the Scots,” she added, “but, unlike the French, we have the discipline to resist the gilding of the feces.” And, with that, she turned and marched down the hallway, muttering under her breath about the “impracticality of the French.” 

“Well, Moony,” said Sirius, reaching for the doorknob, “we might as well rid ourselves of this brocade albatross.” 

 

**Sirius and Remus**  
**_I don’t have to tell you the date, do I?  
Dumbledore’s Office and then Gryffindor Tower_ **

“Welcome, gentlemen - and thank you.”

For a moment, Dumbledore’s voice seemed to come out of nowhere, lost amid a whirring, buzzing, snoring, gossiping sea of magical gadgets and portraits of former headmasters and headmistresses. Fawkes dozed in the corner, muttering soft sleep-squawks, and the Headmaster’s desk was littered with parchment, discarded quills, and something that looked strangely like an abandoned knitting project. Behind that pile of detritus sat Albus Dumbledore, grinning broadly and cleaning his half-moon glasses with the sleeve of his purple, velvet robes. “I can’t thank you enough for bringing me Olympe’s gift.” 

“Gift?” asked Sirius. “I thought this was meant to be some sort of top secret mission.”

Dumbledore laughed. “Monsieur Foutaise does have a penchant for hyperbole, not to mention an odd fascination with Muggle spy novels. Fancies himself, quite the undercover agent, I believe,” he said as he began to unfasten the locks of of the hideous suitcase. 

“So, does this mean,” Remus began with some trepidation, “that the part about no Apparition…”

“Oh, quite right,” Dumbledore replied.

“Bloody buggering fuck,” grumbled Sirius, turning a particular shade of red that would have matched his former MacTavish plaid. 

Remus wholeheartedly agreed with his boyfriend’s words, though he didn’t know that the red complexion was flattering to Sirius.

Dumbledore had the suitcase on its pink, floral back and was carefully unzipping the front. “Now, now,” he scolded mildly, ”have a sense of humor about it, please. The French are forever accusing us Brits of being humorless, and we certainly don’t need to prove them right.” 

“Bloody buggering fuck,” repeated Sirius. _All of it, the train, the cab, the Scots, the embarrassment, the jealousy, was for... nothing. Nothing!_ Still, despite his anger, a small part of him remained intensely curious to see what was inside that damnable suitcase. He glanced apologetically at Remus, but his boyfriend was staring at the horrid thing, utterly transfixed. 

Meanwhile, Dumbledore had the monstrosity open and was furiously tossing out handfuls of colorful feathers. “Cockatrice feathers make excellent packing,” he said by way of explanation. 

“It’s filled with feathers? How the hell could it weigh so much?” Remus muttered to Sirius.

“Probably the damned thing itself,” Sirius whispered back. “Hideousness is quite heavy, I imagine.”

Finally, Dumbledore reached deep into the belly of the case and pulled out what could only be described as the ugliest teapot in existence - so ugly, in fact, it was well and truly worthy of its mode of transport. It was, despite all rules of proper aesthetics, witch-shaped. Clad in voluminous floral fobes, her outstretched hands formed the spout and the lid could apparently be removed by pulling on her perky, smiling head. Soon after, six tea cups, three platters, some tiny plates, a creamer, and a sugar bowl emerged, all equally hideous in design. “Ah, this set is very ancient and was crafted by Parisian Pixies,” Dumbledore exclaimed. “I admired it on my last visit and Olympe, ever the gracious hostess, sent it to me as a gift.”

Sirius, for the life of him, failed to see how anything so poorly designed and unquestionably ugly could be considered a gift. Punishment, more like it. “Bloody buggering fuck,” he muttered for the millionth time. 

But Dumbledore was undeterred. “Oh, I simply can’t wait to use it!” he said excitedly. Gathering up his new treasures, he all but trotted toward the door. “I shall return shortly with our tea!”

Remus wanted to repeat what Sirius had said. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “A tea set.” He graciously didn’t add, ‘The ugliest tea set that has ever been created in the history of tea sets!’ Instead, he said, “We travelled across England and Scotland on a train filled with Wild Haggis-chasing, kilt-wearing, football-playing Scotsmen… with the most atrocious of luggage atrocities… to bring you a tea set? We thought it was something vital for the Order!” The hilarity, the bloody irony of it all was starting to seep into Remus’ brain, and he chuckled softly.

“Sometimes the true adventure is in the journey,” answered Dumbledore with a familiar twinkle in his eye. 

When the Headmaster was gone, Sirius cleared some stacks of books off two armchairs and pulled them closer to the fire. “Sit, love,” he said to Remus, indicating the less dusty of the two. _Clearly, Remus and Dumbledore shared some housekeeping tendencies_ , Sirius realized. But that wasn’t important now. What was important were the things he needed to say. “Remus,” he said, taking in a shuddering breath he hoped did not resemble The Noise. “I am sorry. I am sorry for the fights and the jealousy and for my behaviour on the train. I am sorry for disrespecting your old, flannel dressing gown, and for buying you a new one without first asking if you wanted one. Most of all, I am sorry for misunderstanding that decrepit old Frenchman, and, more importantly, for misunderstanding you.” He squeezed his eyes closed and then opened them, looking shyly at the man he hoped would forgive him. 

Remus could only stare at Sirius mutely for a good minute. Though, when all was said and done, it might have been a bad minute, because he saw how Sirius fidgeted toward the end of the silence. Remus needed the right words to say, though, and he didn’t want to mess anything up. He put his hand on Sirius’ cheek and smiled softly at him. “Oh, love. I am sorry too. For the fights and the insecurity and for not appreciating your generosity. I am sorry for not thanking you for the beautiful dressing gown which I know I needed. I am sorry for what I said when you gave it to me, and I’m sorry for deliberately misconstruing your intentions. I am sorry you misunderstood the decrepit old Frenchman, too, but I am almost glad that we ended up on the train together. It was an adventure, something that we shared that we can laugh at in fifty years from now. For that fact, for this adventure with you, I can never thank you enough.” He leaned in to kiss Sirius, letting his lips linger against Sirius’. 

Sirius returned the kiss with fervor, allowing the moment to wash over him. On some level, despite all his wild talk of a Death Eater-free future filled with pranks, travel, and fights for lycanthropic equality, this was all he really wanted: love, safety, intimacy. This was his world. Pulling back for a moment, he gazed into Remus’ eyes and said. “Oh, and thank you for your display of true Gryffindor bravery in my defense. No matter what Dark forces I may face, somehow nothing scares me like Minerva McGonagall.” He paused thoughtfully for a moment, and added, “probably because, unlike You Know Who or my You-Know-What of a mother, McGonagall is usually right!”

“Minerva McGonagall isn’t bad,” Remus said with a smile. “She knows you’re afraid of her and she uses that to her advantage. Who knew that you would have stolen, er, borrowed the kilt of her clan’s mortal enemy though?” He laughed and whispered, “I could have saved her the trouble by the taking the kilt off you myself.”

Sirius ran his hands though Remus’ silky hair and whispered into his ear. “When we get to the guest room, you know what we should do?” 

“Take a nap?” 

“Take off the kilt, and take a nice, warm, shower together! And then…”

“And then what?”

“Abandon the wet towels on the floor and then hop into bed and abandon all inhibitions!”

Remus laughed. “You say that now, but I’ll bet you a year’s worth of Ice Mice that you can’t do that without making The Noise at least once.”

Sirius was just leaving his seat and about to slide himself onto Remus’ lap when the door burst open and Dumbledore came bustling in. “Tea time!” he said brightly. 

The hideous tea set which had been floating behind him quickly assembled itself on a small side table, making both men realize they were ravenous. The adventure with the Scots on the train had utterly usurped any chance of eating, so the large piles of biscuits, scones, and sandwiches were more than welcome - not to mention blessedly obscuring the awful pattern of plates and platters. As the teapot rose to fill his cup, Sirius felt glad to be a Wizard. Magic was, unquestionably, the best way to deal with this particular tea set; the idea of beheading a ferociously smiling witch just to make tea was somehow unnerving. 

Remus tried to ignore the tea set as much as possible, afraid that any comment he might make would simply lead Sirius to make several inappropriate statements, especially with the way he was eying up the rather creepy porcelain witch.

After a few minutes of thoughtful chewing and silence, Dumbledore cleared his throat. “Later tonight, gentleman - if you’re in the mood to continue your fine Scottish adventure - we have a real treat! Lachlann Mackenzie, a Fourth-Year Gryffindor, will be giving a splendid bagpipe recital in the Great Hall. Lachlann plays the magical bagpipes, too, so there’ll be flames and fireworks, such as I know you enjoy.” His shaggy white eyebrows shot up to the brim of his purple hat, and he giggled to himself before adding, “And, if it anything like last time, Minerva may dance the Highland Fling! And, Sirius, since you’ve dressed the part, I thought you might care to join her.” 

Horrified, Sirius said nothing. He had no idea how to do the Highland Fling, but pictured himself dancing about with his former Transfiguration professor, arms raised, swords crossed beneath his feet, legs and kilt flapping away. _Bloody buggering fuck... NO!_ , he thought to himself. 

“No.” Remus said firmly. He saw Dumbledore’s surprised expression, and it wasn’t until then that he realised he’d never said that word to Dumbledore before. “I have had more than enough of all things Scottish. A train full of kilted Scotsmen, a pink brocade suitcase, and a Wild Haggis is enough to set me off anything Scottish for the next year.” His eyes went to the kilt that Sirius was wearing and then smiled. “Well, almost anything.” His eyes widened in horror as he realised he’d just said that in front of Dumbledore. “Er, I mean, never mind.”

Dumbledore smiled and waved a dismissive hand that happened to be holding a scone. “That’s quite all right, Remus. It is good to know that love exists even in times such as these. Another sandwich?”

Remus hoped that the heat in his cheeks didn’t mean he was blushing furiously. “No, thank you. Though, I suppose I will take one more biscuit.” He chose one and began nibbling at it, even though he wasn’t hungry, just to keep himself from saying anything else.

Sirius smiled and then stifled a yawn. Once his appetite for food was sated, everything else, exhaustion, sore feet, need for a shower seemed to take over. 

Remus glanced over at Sirius, noting that he hadn’t made some kind of smart-arse comment about anything that Remus or Dumbledore had just said. That meant that he was either plotting something incredibly devious or he was tired. As it was getting late and they’d just stuffed themselves as full as the dreaded pink floral brocade suitcase, Sirius was probably tired. The lull in the conversation gave Remus the opportunity to push his plate back and say, “I think that last biscuit did me in. If you don’t mind, Headmaster, Professor McGonagall mentioned something about a guest room in Gryffindor Tower?”

“Never knew it was there,” Sirius muttered under his breath. “Holding out on us, she was.” He could only imagine the fun - not to mention untamed intimate encounters - that might have occurred had that information been available when they were students. 

Dumbledore smiled knowingly, “Some mysteries are best revealed once out of harm’s way,” he said sagely. Then, with a flourish of his wand, he dismissed the hideous tea set, which gathered itself up and headed itself out the door to the kitchens. 

Neither Sirius nor Remus were sorry to see it go. 

Remus stood up quickly. After all the surprises of repulsive suitcases that were inordinately heavy and appalling tea sets that ought never be used in any kind of polite company--or rude company either, Remus thought, being in a much generous mood now that he’d had something to eat--he was loath to think about what other kinds of surprises might be lurking. Dumbledore was certainly full of them, and Remus couldn’t remember a single pleasant one at that moment. He reached down and grabbed a fistful of thuggish leather jacket and tugged. Sirius gave a shocked “Hey!” before doing the intelligent thing of getting to his feet. Remus smiled at the Headmaster. “So, we’ll be heading back to Gryffindor Tower now.”

Dumbledore smiled and, with a gleam in his eye that Remus might have labelled as ‘mischievous’, said, “If the two of you are out of bed in the morning for breakfast, you’re more than welcome to join us in the Great Hall for breakfast. I imagine you, Sirius, might especially find it interesting to see what the professors might do to see you sitting at the staff table.”

“We can sit at the High Table?” Sirius repeated. Remus could just see ideas sparking behind the grey eyes. 

“It is customary for _adult_ visitors and guests to do so,” Dumbledore said. Remus had the idea that the man was trying very hard not to laugh. “That does, however, require a certain amount of decorum.”

“It would mean you couldn’t charm anyone’s spoon to stick to the table or make the kippers stand up and dance,” Remus warned Sirius.

“I suppose that means that the bacon has to stay on the platter and not slither like snakes onto people’s plates,” Sirius said sadly, his shoulders squared against what he knew already was going to be bad news. 

“Exactly.”

“If you choose not to join us for breakfast, just call for a House Elf,” Dumbledore said. “I will send one to the Tower to show you where the guest room is.”

Sirius and Remus set off toward Gryffindor Tower a few minutes later, each sucking on a lemon drop. “You do realise,” Remus pointed out, “that we have no clothes or bag of our own. We were so wrapped up in getting the Suitcase of Suffering here that we didn’t pack for ourselves.”

Sirius put one arm around Remus’ waist. “Love, by the time I get done with you, we won’t need clothes to sleep in anyhow.” Truth be told, he was feeling good - finally, feeling good. It has been a journey of nearly 400 miles, but it was not the physical distance that was important. 

Remus gave him a glance out of the corner of his eye. “After this day, with the all the stress and Scottish footballers and wild magical animals, you’re in the mood for something more than sleeping?”

Sirius grinned. “What? You aren’t? Didn’t you find the journey inspiring?” 

Remus leaned back to steal a glance at Sirius’ kilt-covered arse. “I suppose I did, love.” He grinned. It had been a long day, but he had to admit that he’d learned a lot about what was important. “Let’s get back to the room and get that kilt off and we’ll see how inspired I am.”

They broke into a run, laughing as they did. They felt very much like boys again, racing through the corridors back to the Tower.

They slid to a stop in front of the Fat Lady’s portrait. She was inspecting her fingernails and didn’t look up as she said in a bored tone, “Password?” 

Remus looked at Sirius, and Sirius looked at him. “What the hell was that password?” Sirius asked. 

Remus blinked. “Something Scottish.”

The Fat Lady looked up at them. “Remus Lupin and Sirius Black? What are you two doing here?” Her eyes lit on Sirius’ kilt and she smiled in a way that Remus might have said was lust--and that was too creepy to consider. “My! Such a nice kilt!”

“We’re spending the night in the guest room,” Remus said loudly, bringing her attention back to business.

“Yes. We had to bring something to the Headmaster,” Sirius continued. “It was in a bloody awful pink floral--”

“I hardly think she’s interested in the details,” Remus interrupted him. Frankly, he wasn’t all that interested in going through the story anyhow. He wanted to get into their room and see what was going to happen next between him and Sirius.

“Ooh! Staying in the guest room!” The Fat Lady put one hand over her heart. “You’ve grown up so quickly! I can still remember when you first came here to my portrait! Such adorable little boys! I could tell even then that you were destined for great things!”

“You know, now that you bring it up, us being students and all, can you tell me why you never told us about the Guest Room in Gryffindor Tower?” Sirius asked. Surely, if anyone, his favorite portrait would have been honest with him. She adored him, after all. 

The Fat Lady looked appalled. “I didn’t dare! The thought of what you or James Potter might do!”

“She knows you well,” Remus said dryly.

Sirius lifted his chin proudly. “I resent that, Moony.”

“You do not. You know it’s true.”

A bright, mischievous grin spread across Sirius’ face, making Remus’ chest ache with happiness and love. “I do.”

The Fat Lady sighed a little. “So, do you have the password?”

Remus frowned in thought.

“Something with ‘car’ in it,” Sirius offered. “Cardinal. Carpet. Carmen. Do you remember Carmen Espina? Very prickly personality. She threatened to set fire to my robes because James made the back of her skirt disappear.”

“In all fairness, you were standing there with your wand aiming right at her.”

“It was sheer coincidence. I was intending on hexing Rosier, who was--”

“Sirius.”

“--walking right past her, but he was--”

“Sirius.”

“--looking back at me, and I just knew he was--”

“Sirius!”

Sirius stopped and stared at Remus . “You don’t need to shout.” 

“Obviously I do. Now. Can you come up with the password? Or do we need to track down McGonagall?”

Sirius faked a shudder. “Oh, bloody buggering fu…” he stopped and looked apologetically at the Fat Lady, “let’s not have to do that! Let’s see.. Car… Carbon.... Cardamom… Carton... Cartoon...”

The Fat Lady almost seemed to sidle up to the front of the painting in a seductive sort of way.“You know, if you lift that kilt and let me have a peek at what’s beneath it, I might consider letting you into the Tower without the password.”

Sirius grinned. “Really? Oh. Well, that’s simple enough.” 

“Sirius…” warned Remus, “we promised McGonagall…”

“What could the harm be?” Sirius stage-whispered, “That painted old biddy’s probably seen nothing more exciting than Sir Cadogan’s hairy arse since we left school. We might was well give her a treat!” With a devastating smile, he reached for the hem of his kilt, as the Fat Lady nodded in enthusiasm. 

“CARDOON!!” cried Remus, looking greatly relieved. 

“Right-o!” added Sirius, dropping the hem.

“Damn,” muttered the Fat Lady dejectedly. Clearly disappointed, but bound as always by the laws of Hogwarts, she had no choice but to open the door. “Stick your finger in the left nostril of the lion carved into the mantlepiece,” she added, “and the guest room door will open.”

“Figures that, after all the other nonsense today has brought, we’d end it by picking the nose of a lion,” muttered Sirius as they clambered through the portrait hole. 

But as soon as they entered the Common Room, Sirius stopped short. Though strangely deserted - or, perhaps not so strangely considering they’d lingered so long over tea that it was probably dinner time - the Common Room felt instantly familiar. Rather than go immediately to the lion and attempt to search for stone bogeys, Sirius wandered over to his once-favorite squashy poof, plopped himself down, and breathed in deeply. Unsurprisingly, the Common room still smelled of ink and magic and post-Quidditch match students. It held the same battered, well-loved furniture scarred by years of Gryffindor butts and spells gone awry. And, there, far up in a dark corner of the ceiling was the long, black soot streak left over from the time James has “accidentally” set Peter’s teddy bear on fire. “It’s just the same, Moony,” he whispered. “It’s all exactly the same.”

But somehow it wasn’t. It was both less and more, older and newer, different and familiar. “Or maybe it’s not,” he added after a moment. “Maybe it’s changed.”

“No, love,” said Remus, slipping his arms around Sirius. “ _We_ have.”

Sirius considered this for a moment. As usual, Remus was right. When he’d left Grimmauld Place, Hogwarts has been home, and for seven (mostly) wonderful years, this Common Room had been the heart of it. But now his heart and home were elsewhere; they were with Remus, wet towels, piles of possession, cigarette butts, and all. 

Remus looked around the room, smiling at the memories that were tickling his brain. “I am surprised at how many things I have forgotten.” He didn’t know what he felt so surprised about it. He and Sirius had done so much since they’d left school: fought battles, fought with each other, loved one another, watched Lily and James get married, and watched other friends die. Their boyhood was long past them now because circumstances had demanded they grow up quickly. That process of growing up had started months ago: learning to live together outside Hogwarts’ confining but comforting environment. Things had come to a rather abrupt nadir the day before, but after their adventures, Remus was getting the sense that, though they might occasionally stumble on their path together, they would have one another to fall upon. They were more surefooted than he’d realised. More surefooted than he’d dared to hope. He loved Sirius and Sirius loved him. He knew that as assuredly as he knew that pink floral brocade did not make for pleasant luggage covering. “Isn’t it strange how the ugliest suitcase in the world has brought us back here?” he said thoughtfully, thinking that it had also forced them to see their relationship through very different eyes--and to appreciate what they had.

“It is,” Sirius replied with a smile. “I for one am grateful for it.”

“Grateful?” Remus repeated. He chuckled. “Would you go as far as to say grateful? Really?”

“I am.” Sirius got up and turned so he could give Remus a quick kiss on the lips. “You’re not going to fight me on the bathrobe, and I’m not going to complain about your cigarettes. For a while at least. I’d say that should make you very grateful as well.”

Remus looked down, a sudden devilish light appearing in his eye. “I am more grateful for Angus. If not for him, you wouldn’t be wearing this particular item of clothing.” He tugged at the kilt Sirius was wearing.

Sirius turned away from him and wiggled his arse. “You like the kilt, do you?”

Remus was nearly breathless with appreciation. “Oh, yes,” he replied, dragging the words out long and seductively. “You know I do.”

“You know what you need to do, Moony,” Sirius said, lowering his head and looking up at Remus through beautiful eyelashes.

Oh, he was not going to get away with that look, Remus decided. He leaned in and whispered into Sirius’ ear, “Then let’s find our room, shall we?” He made certain to allow his lips to graze Sirius’ ear in a way that he knew drove Sirius absolutely mad. 

Sirius all but lunged for the carved lion. As he shoved his finger into the lion’s nostril, he found himself thinking that it seemed rude to pick someone else’s nose, even if it was a lion and one carved of stone, at that. “Sorry, mate,” he whispered to the lion. Was that a gleam of disdain in the rocky eyes? There was a moment of silence during which Remus asked “Is it doing anything? Did you do something wrong?”

“Moony, there is only one lion, and he only has one left nostril.”

“Did she mean the left nostril as we’re looking at the lion or from the lion’s point-of-view?”

Sirius glared at Remus. “Shall I shove another finger up his other nostril just to be sure?”

There was a grinding noise, and they looked around at the wall beneath the girls’ dormitory stairs. A small section of wall seemed to be sinking into the wall and then slid backwards, revealing a door-shaped hole.

“See? I did it perfectly,” Sirius said, with a proud tilt to his chin.

“Picked a lion’s nose?” Remus retorted.

“Well, you may now stand amazed at me, Moonykins. I have disproved the theory that you can pick your friends and you can pick your nose, but you can’t pick your friend’s nose.”

Remus stared at him with the flattest expression ever. “That hardly counts, because first of all, this is a lion, not your friend. Second of all, you just said that because you wanted to tell that joke. Not for any other reason.”

Sirius grinned. “Is there a law against gratuitous joke-telling?”

Remus began to laugh. “No. There is not. If there were, you’d be in Azkaban.” He put his arm around Sirius and steered him toward the doorway. “Come on, love. I have a kilt to strip from you and I’d like to do that as soon as possible. I have plans to take advantage of you many times before we sleep.”

Sirius allowed himself to be pushed inside the room, but as the door automatically closed behind him, asked, “Think there’s a chance we could ride the train again and see if we can’t get you into a kilt?”

Remus laughed. “Not a Wild Haggis’ chance in pink-floral brocaded Hell.”

**Author's Note:**

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